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HARVARD
UKRAINIAN STUDIES
GUEST EDITOR
Robert A. De Lossa, Harvard University
EDITOR
Lubomyr Hajda, Harvard University
EDITORIAL BOARD
Michael S. Flier, George G. Grabowicz,
Edward L. Keenan, and Roman Szporluk,
Harvard University;
Frank E. Sysyn, University of Alberta
FOUNDING EDITORS
Omeljan Pritsak and Ihor Sevöenko,
Harvard University
BOOK REVIEW EDITOR
Larry Wolff
ASSISTANT EDITOR
Daria Yurchuk
ADVISORY BOARD
Zvi Ankori, Tel Aviv University—John A. Armstrong, University of Wisconsin—Yaroslav Bilinsky,
University of Delaware
Axinia Djurova, University of Sofia—Olexa Horbatsch, University of
Frankfurt—Halil inalcık, University of Chicago—Jaroslav D. Isajevych, Institute of Ukrainian
Studies, Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, L'viv—Edward Kasinec, New York Public Library—
Magdalena László-Kufiuk, University of Bucharest—Walter Leitsch, University of Vienna—L. R.
Lewitter, Cambridge University—G. Luciani, University of Bordeaux—George S. N. Luckyj, University of Toronto—M. Łesiów, Marie Curie-Sklodowska University, Lublin—Paul R. Magocsi, University of Toronto—Dimitri Obolensky, Oxford University—Riccardo Picchio, Yale University—Marc
Raeff, Columbia University—Hans Rothe, University of Bonn—Bohdan Rubchak, University of
Illinois at Chicago Circle—Władysław A. Serczyk, University of Warsaw at Białystok—George Y.
Shevelov, Columbia University—Günther Stökl, University of Cologne—A. de Vincenz, University
of Göttingen—Vaclav Źidlickjr, Charles University, Prague.
COMMITTEE ON UKRAINIAN STUDIES, Harvard University
Stanisław Barañczak
Patricia Chaput
Timothy Colton
Michael S. Flier
George G. Grabowicz
Edward L. Keenan
Jeffrey D. Sachs
Roman Szporluk (Chairman)
Subscription rates per volume (two double issues) are $28.00 U.S. in the United States and Canada,
$32.00 in other countries. The price of one double issue is $18.00 ($20.00 overseas). Correspondence
should be addressed to HARVARD UKRAINIAN STUDIES, Ukrainian Research Institute, Harvard
University, 1583 Massachusetts Avenue, Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138-2801, U.S.A. Telephone:
617-495-4053; fax. 617-495-8097. E-mail correspondence: [email protected]. Internet:
www.sabre.org/huri/.
HARVARD
UKRAINIAN STUDIES
Volume XXI
Number 1/2
Ukrainian Research Institute
Harvard University
Cambridge, Massachusetts
June 1997
Publication of this volume has been made possible by the
generous support of Ukrainian studies at Harvard University by
the Very Rev. Myroslav Oleshko.
The editors assume no responsibility for
statements of fact or opinion made by contributors.
© 1999, by the President and Fellows of Harvard College
All rights reserved
ISSN 0363-5570
Published by the Ukrainian Research Institute of Harvard University,
Cambridge, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
Printed in Canada by Transcontinental Books, Inc.
Articles appearing in this journal are abstracted and indexed in
Historical Abstracts and America: History and Life.
CONTENTS
SPECIAL SECTION: NEW VOICES IN UKRAINIAN STUDIES
From "Chicken Kiev" to Ukrainian Recognition:
Domestic Politics in U.S. Foreign Policy toward Ukraine
SUSAN D. FINK
11
The Coming of "Chrysler Imperial":
Ukrainian Youth and Rituals of Resistance
ALEXANDRA HRYCAK
63
Speaking of Surzhyk: Ideologies and Mixed Languages
LAADABILANIUK
93
"Brothers, We Are All of Cossack Stock": The Cossack Campaign
in Ukrainian Newspapers on the Eve of Independence
KAREL С BERKHOFF
119
Indigenous and Diaspora Elites and the Return of CarpathoRuthenian Nationalism, 1989-1992
RAYMOND A. SMITH
141
(Re-)Writing History: Oleksandr SokolovsTcyi and the
Soviet Ukrainian Historical Novel
KATRIN BERTRAM
161
REVIEW ESSAY
Polish Landowners in Volhynia, Podolia, and Kyiv Gubernia
(1863-1914) in Daniel Beauvois' La Bataille de la Terre
TADEUSZ EPSZTEIN
173
REVIEWS
Bohdan Strumiński, Linguistic Interrelations in Early Rus':
Northmen, Finns, and East Slavs (Ninth to Eleventh Centuries)
(Andrii Danylenko)
197
Carol Belkin Stevens, Soldiers of the Steppe: Army Reform and Social
Change in Early Modern Russia
(Marshall Poe)
200
Valerie A. Kivelson, Autocracy in the Provinces: The Muscovite Gentry
and Political Culture in the Seventeenth Century
(Marshall Poe)
202
Richard S. Wortman, Scenarios of Power: Myth and Ceremony in
Russian Monarchy. Vol. 1, From Peter the Great to the Death
of Nicholas I. (James Cracraft)
205
Martin Schulze Wessel, Russlands Blick aufPreussen: Die Polnische
Frage in der Diplomatie und der Politischen Oeffentlichkeit
des Zarenreiches und des Sowjetstaates
(Larry Wolff)
208
Theophilus C. Prousis, Russian Society and the Greek Revolution
(Alexander Dillon)
211
Daniel Beauvois, Le Noble, le Serf et le Revisor: La Noblesse Polonaise
entre le Tsarism et les Masses Ukrainiennes (1831-1863)
(Roman Serbyn)
213
Susan P. McCaffray, The Politics of Industrialization in Tsarist
Russia: The Association of Southern Coal and Steel Producers,
1874-1914 (Klaus Gęstwa)
217
Robert E. Blobaum, Rewolucja: Russian Poland, 1904-1907
(Brian A. Porter)
220
Robert Weinberg, The Revolution of 1905 in Odessa: Blood on the
Steps (Henry Abramson)
222
Robert J. Kaiser, The Geography of Nationalism in Russia and the USSR
(Yuriy Smolnikov)
223
Piotr Eberhardt, Przemiany Narodowoście na Ukrainie XX wieku
(Stephen Rapawy)
225
Vojtech Mastny, The Cold War and Soviet Insecurity: The Stalin Years
(Barbara Keys)
227
Leonid Kistersky, С. Michael Soussan and Daniel L. Cruise, eds.,
Security in Eastern Europe: The Case of Ukraine
(Yuriy Smolnikov)
228
David J. Elkins, Beyond Sovereignty: Territory and Political
Economy in the Twenty-First Century
(John A. Armstrong)
230
Paul Kolstoe, Russians in the Former Soviet Republics
(Ian Bremmer)
232
Roger S. Clark and Madeleine Sann, The Prosecution of International
Crimes: A Critical Study of the International Tribunal for
the Former Yugoslavia
(Paul Thomas Rabchenuk)
234
Andriy Chirovsky, Pray for God's Wisdom: The Mystical Sophiology
of Metropolitan Andrey Sheptytsky
(George C. Berthold)
236
Bryan D. Spinks, Western Use and Abuse of Eastern Liturgical
Traditions: Some Cross-Sections in its History
(Peter Galadza)
237
Ernst С. Suttner, Church Unity: Union or Uniatism? CatholicOrthodox Ecumenical Perspectives
(Michael A. Fahey)
239
Paul Bushkovitch, Religion and Society in Russia: The Sixteenth
and Seventeenth Centuries
(Andrei Pliguzov)
241
Jonathan Sutton, Traditions in New Freedom: Christianity and
Higher Education in Russia and Ukraine Today
(William Gleason)
243
Iurii IasynovsTcyi, Ukraïns'ki ta bilorus'ki notoliniini irmoloi
16-18 stolit': Kataloh і kodikolohychno-paleohrafychne
doslidzhennia
(Milos Velimirovic)
244
Yakov Soroker, Ukrainian Musical Elements in Classical Music
(Yakov Gubanov)
246
Larysa Briukhovetsica, Poety chna khvylia ukraïns'koho kino
Mariia Mykolaichuk, ed., Bilyiptakh z chornoiu oznakoiu. Ivan
Mykolaichuk: Spohady, interviú, stsenarïi
(Bohdan Y.Nebesio)
248
Emery George, ed., Contemporary East European Poetry: An Anthology
(Michael M. Naydan)
250
Donald Rayfield, The Literature of Georgia: A History
(Dodona Kiziria)
251
AION-SLAVISTICA. Annali dell'Istituto Universitario Orientale
di Napoli, Dipartimento di studi dell'Europa orientale,
Sezione Slavistica. Vol. 2,1994.
(Andrii Danylenko)
255
Mykola Fedosiiovych Tarasenko, Myroslav Iuriiovych Rusyn,
Ada Korniïvna Bychko, et al., eds., Istoriiafilosofiï
Ukrainy: Khrestomatiia
(Natalia Kovalchuk)
257
BOOKS RECEIVED
260
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Karel Berkhoff is an independent researcher in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. He
completed his master's degree at Harvard University and his doctoral degree in
the Department of History at the University of Toronto.
Katrin Bertram currently is a researcher in computational linguistics in Berlin.
She completed her doctorate in the Department of Slavistics at Humboldt University.
Laada Bilaniuk is an assistant professor in the Department of Anthropology at
the University of Washington. She completed her doctoral work in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Michigan.
Tadeusz Epsztein is a Lecturer at the Institute of History at the Academy of Arts
and Sciences, Warsaw, Poland.
Susan D. Fink is a Lieutenant Commander in the United States Navy. She has
worked on issues concerning domestic ethnic lobbies both as a master's student
at the Naval Postgraduate School and as a White House fellow.
Alexandra Hrycak is an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology at
Reed College. Her doctoral work was completed in the Department of Sociology
at the University of Chicago.
Raymond A. Smith is currently a doctoral candidate in the Department of Political Science at Columbia University.
Michael Żurowski is an independent researcher in Toronto.
GUEST EDITOR'S NOTE
The current issue of Harvard Ukrainian Studies features a special section with
works by younger scholars who present a broad survey of the directions in which
Ukrainian studies have headed since Ukraine's independence in 1991.
Independence itself has both stimulated and challenged the field. A survey
(through American citation indices) of scholarly literature devoted to Ukrainian
topics shows a very sharp increase between 1989 and 1992, with a peak in 1993/
94 and a leveling thereafter. Part of this growth has been due to the rise of a new
generation of scholars that are looking at Ukraine from a variety of different
disciplines. In the current issue of HUS anthropology and cultural studies are
represented by Alexandra Hrycak and her study of Bu-Ba-Bu and the
significance of "Vyvykh-92" as a marker of a new type of nationalism in early
independent Ukraine; social anthropology is represented by Laada Bilaniuk and
her assessment of the surzhyk phenomenon as an indicator of power and prestige;
Raymond Smith represents political science with his dissection of the
relationship among native and diaspora Carpatho-Ruthenian elites dedicated to
an ethno-nationalist platform, and the Western scholars who study (and foster)
them; government and policy studies are represented by Susan Fink's close
analysis of the Ukrainian-American community's lobbying efforts for U.S.
recognition of Ukrainian independence; Karel Berkhoff presents a contemporary
history of the use of a Ukrainian leitmotif—the democratic, powerful, and
independent Cossack—on the eve of Ukrainian independence; and, finally,
Katrin Bertram combines literary criticism and history in her review of
Oleksandr Sokolovsicyi's Bohun.
These scholars also represent a variety of different institutions. One of the
hallmarks of "post-independence" Ukrainian studies in this country has been the
broadening of the study of Ukraine in institutions outside the handful that
traditionally practiced it. On the individual level, growth has occurred both
through an increase in the number of students with Ukraine-related foci in their
programs and through the influx of established scholars—especially in political
science, developmental economics, and sociology—who have begun to examine
Ukraine as part of their research. Ukraine-based nationality studies have played
a particularly important role in the post-Cold War analysis of nationality and
ethnicity. Similar patterns of growth are seen in the fields of literature studies and
language pedagogy.
The kernel of the present volume was conceived by Prof. Henry Huttenbach of
the City College of New York and was originally intended as a joint collaboration
between Harvard Ukrainian Studies and Nationality Papers, of which Prof.
Huttenbach was then editor. Bohdan Py skir and I made the original call for papers
and then selected the texts in consultation with a number of scholars at Harvard
University, chief among them Dr. Lubomyr Hajda, who has contributed valuable
advice throughout this project. Dr. Hajda also eventually offered the pages of
Harvard Ukrainian Studies for the publication of the articles when it became clear
that the earlier plans involving Nationality Papers could not be brought to
fruition. For this opportunity I would like to thank him and the editorial board of
HUS. Finally, I would like to thank the authors, who have responded with patience
and collégial good will to a lengthy editorial process. I very much look forward
to their future contributions in a new era of Ukrainian studies.
RAD
Cambridge, Mass.
From "Chicken Kiev" to Ukrainian Recognition:
Domestic Politics in U.S. Foreign Policy toward Ukraine
SUSAN D. FINK
The collapse of the Soviet Union was one of the most important events of the
twentieth century. The linchpin of the Soviet Union was Ukraine. If this nation
of 52 million people were to achieve independence, the Soviet empire would
crumble, and the Union would cease to exist. George Bush—both holding to a
position that was consistent with the tradition of post-World War II presidents
affirming a free hand for the Soviets in the non-Russian republics and
demonstrating his personal friendship with Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev—
did all that he could to keep Ukraine within the Soviet Union.
On 1 August 1991 Bush announced in Kyiv that Americans would not
support Ukrainian independence. He admonished Ukrainians to sign onto
Gorbachev's Union Treaty, calling Ukrainian democratic aspirations "suicidal
nationalism," a phrase provided by Gorbachev. He further exhorted them to
remember that "freedom is not the same as independence" (Goble 1993;
Iwanciw 1993b). Just four months later, Bush reversed course. He did so when
five decades of two-faced anti-communist rhetoric caught up with the White
House. The American administration had become so accustomed to its own
doublespeak that, when the Soviet system collapsed out from under it, it could
not adjust to the reality of the nations emerging from its rubble. Instead, the
White House clung desperately to the old order. Gorbachev's inability to adapt
to new realities cost him the Union and his presidency. Bush's inflexibility cost
him the East European ethnic vote in a crucial election year. In the end, the
president was forced to recognize an independent Ukraine, but in an embarrassing way that left the new state and its people with no political debts to the U.S.
government.
Introduction
The nature of President Bush's problem at the time of the Kyiv address was this:
by 1991 the rules by which the conduct of foreign policy was run had changed,
both in the Soviet and American political arenas. Compounding the problem for
Bush was the fact that he could no longer count on the unconditional support of
American East European ethnic groups, including Ukrainian-Americans—
groups that had safely been in the GOP's camp since World War II. In 1991, they
Harvard Ukrainian Studies XXI (1/2) 1997: 11-61.
12
ΠΝΚ
became an electoral foe of the Republican Party. Exploiting the Democratic need
for election-year leverage, the Ukrainian-Americans lobbied members of the
Congress and the bureaucracy to bring down the Bush stand against Ukraine.
This was a small community with none of the force of the Jewish-American
lobby. It relied upon organization, communication, access to decision makers,
and the power of election-year politics. The lobby's most powerful tool,
however, was its message that an independent Ukraine, and not Gorbachev's
communism, was vital to American national security. The Ukrainian-American
success was tremendous. Largely due to the lobby's efforts, the Senate passed
a resolution urging Bush to recognize Ukraine, the Secretary of Defense
officially parted ways with the State Department-sponsored Bush policy, while
the Democratic party made much political hay of Bush' s August speech, dubbed
"Chicken Kiev" by the American media. All this was too much for the Bush
Administration to bear. Fewer than four months after the President set the course
of American foreign policy in Kyiv, he reversed it. On 27 November 1991, four
days before Ukrainians voted in a referendum on independence, Bush met a
group of fifteen Ukrainian-Americans in the West Wing of the White House. To
this delegation, which represented an organized community of some 100,000
Americans, the President announced that Ukraine was "entitled to independence.'"
He granted formal recognition on 25 December.
The Ukrainian-American case may shed new light on ethnic politics, because most studies have concluded that a lobby's influence is dependent upon
such strategies as coalition building, access to power, and grassroots mobilization (Moon 1984, 116; Rosati 1992, 464). In addition to their electoral role in
U.S. recognition of Ukraine, the ethnic lobby also played an important informational role.
U.S. Cold War Soviet policy was made by the President and a few of his
closest advisors (see, for example, Isaacson 1986; Acheson 1969; Ball 1982).
George Kennan, the father of American containment strategy, typifies these
foreign policy elites.2 That any lobby could influence these "wise men" was
considered unlikely, if not unthinkable. That such a small lobby could effect a
complete reversal of policy seemed almost absurd. However, the ethnic community understood what the CIA, State Department, and a huge community of
Soviet-area specialists did not—that the Soviet nationalities question was the
greatest ethno-national dilemma of the 20th century and Ukraine was the thread
that, if tugged by American recognition, would unravel the entire communist
empire. That citizens at the lower levels of the American sociopolitical ladder
understood what powerful officials at the highest levels of government did not
is one of the most striking paradoxes of American policy toward the Soviet
Union.3 Perhaps most significant of all is the fact that Ukrainian-Americans
realized before the Bush White House that international events had overtaken
American foreign policy making, both in terms of structure and content. The
dualistic tactics of the Republican policy—with domestic rhetoric about liber-
FROM "CHICKEN KIEV" TO UKRAINIAN RECOGNITION
13
ating the "captive nations" and simultaneous assurances to Moscow of noninterference—could not be sustained after 1989.4 The administration could no
longer use human rights and democratic self-determination rhetoric by labeling
them "tools of containment."
The case of Ukrainian independence may indicate a shift in the U.S. domestic political process toward an increasing role for ethnic groups in the post-Cold
War environment.5 As the wars in Bosnia demonstrated, the United States must
now reconcile foreign policy to the fall of the large, multi-ethnic state and the
rise of separate nations. As the former Yugoslavia also shows, procrastination
in facing complex ethnic conflicts abroad can present rapidly deteriorating
policy options.
Because this is a first account of U.S. recognition of Ukraine, I have relied
primarily upon interviews. Interviews were conducted in person and by telephone. Some of those interviewed asked not to be identified by name and have
been identified instead by their occupation and position. A common questionnaire was used for all those interviewed, whether or not the subject supported
or opposed the lobby, in order to determine relative familiarity with the subject.
Additional questions were added depending upon degree of familiarity and
interview time available. Quantitative analysis of ethnic voting behavior and
Congressional support for the lobby is lacking; the qualitative analysis of
information gleaned through interviews supplemented the sparse numerical
data. The reason for the lack of quantitative data seems to result from relatively
little work which has been done on the role of ethnicity in foreign policy (See
Shain 1995 and Clough 1994 for exceptions).
Captive Nations: The Liberation Myth
George Bush declared on 12 July 1991, "Until freedom and independence have
been achieved for every captive nation, we shall continue to call on all
governments and states to uphold both the letter and the spirit of international
human rights agreements" (Bush 1991). Less than two weeks later he told
parliamentary deputies in Kyiv, "Yet freedom is not the same as independence.
Americans will not support those who seek independence in order to replace a
far-off tyranny with a local despotism. They will not aid those who promote a
suicidal nationalism based upon ethnic hatred" (Appendix B).
These speeches illustrate how a president can speak about liberation at home
and domination abroad. This is nothing new. Woodrow Wilson began the trend
with self-determination rhetoric designed to curry the U.S. ethnic vote, but not
providing the basis for real amelioration of the situations of ethnic minorities in
the empires of his allies. When it came to the Soviet Union, this general policy
applied as well. Presidents, Democrats as well as Republicans, used two languages. With elites in Moscow they would speak frankly and realistically,
14
FINK
assuring them of U.S. non-interference in Eastern Europe, tacitly granting a
Soviet sphere of influence. With the American masses, presidents used a
different language, filled with symbolism designed to threaten or reassure them
in order to get their vote.
Henry Kissinger provides a good example of this dual track, which sometimes seemed to verge on contempt for the American electorate. In a Communist Party document that came to light after the fall of the USSR, Soviet
Ambassador to the U.S. Anatoly F. Dobrynin recounted the words of President
Nixon's National Security Advisor to him on 12 June 1969:
President Nixon takes into account the Soviet Union's special interests in East
Europe and does not intend to do anything there that would be assessed in
Moscow as a "challenge" to its position in this region. That is Nixon's basic
approach to this question and there is no need, affirmed Kissinger, to pay
great attention "to separate critical statements by the president on one East
European country or another, since this is only tribute to some layers of the
U.S. population which play a role in American elections" (Schmemann 1991).
Since Wilson introduced the idea of national self-determination into U.S.
policies in an effort to corner the massive bloc of Central and East European
ethnic voters during World War I, the Republicans and Democrats have engaged in a tug-of-war for the ethnic vote. Wilson raised ethnic hopes for
liberation of their homelands with the organization of Oppressed Nationalities
of Central Europe, formed in 1918 by George Creel (DeConde 1992, 89).
Because the nations to enjoy liberation were those under Austria-Hungary and
Germany, this turned Lithuanian, Ukrainian, Hungarian, and German ethnic
groups toward the Democrats. Subsequently, these largely blue-collar ethnic
groups were again drawn to the Democrats' New Deal under Roosevelt.6
After World War II, the Republicans consistently won this ethnic vote.
Three things seem to have shifted their allegiance. First, postwar immigrants,
or displaced persons, were highly politicized, nationally-conscious refugees
unmoved by Democratic economic policies. Second, the ethnic groups believed that Roosevelt had sold their homelands down the river at Yalta. Finally,
Eisenhower learned from Wilson's success and used it in his "liberation plank"
in the 1952 campaign, his policy of "rollback" (whereby Americans would roll
back the Soviets from Eastern Europe), and his sponsoring of the Captive
Nations resolution in 1959 (this declared that the independence of those nations
was vital to American interests).7 Following Eisenhower's administration, the
Republicans' staunch anti-communist platform and rhetoric were sufficient to
keep the ethnic East European vote in the GOP. This remained the case until
1992.
Liberation theory was politics. Spanier (1985, 73) put it succinctly, stating,
"The [Republican] policy of liberation seems to have been devised primarily to
roll back the Democrats in the United States, not the Red Army in Eastern
Europe. And for this domestic purpose, liberation was a highly effective strat-
15
egy." For the Republicans, liberation theory included not only "rollback," but
also Captive Nations Week (see Weed 1973).
The Captive Nations Week resolution was signed by President Eisenhower
and passed as Public Law 86-90 by Congress in 1959 (Appendices F, G, pp 5657). The resolution and the ethnic lobby's role in framing and preserving it will
be discussed later. Note here that the resolution declared that liberation of
Ukraine was a vital national interest (see especially the seventh paragraph of
the act, Appendix F). Some have argued that Republicans adopted the resolution hastily—verbatim from the draft provided by Georgetown professor and
leader of the Ukrainian lobby Lev Dobriansky—in anticipation of ethnic opposition to Eisenhower's meeting with Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev three
weeks later (Weed 1973, 183). They argued that the Congress, which passed
the resolution unanimously, considered it a "routine response" to constituent
wishes, and was ignorant of its content and importance (Mathias 1981).
Ironically, the United States held the key to the Soviet disintegration all
along, and, because of a fixation on containment, never chose to use it. In 1960,
Dobriansky wrote, "Russia understands the significance of the force of nationalism far better than we do" (Smal-Stocki 1960, 11). Khrushchev's vehement
protests against the resolution's Captive Nations Week, and Soviet attempts to
overshadow its yearly observance, should have alerted American leaders to the
potential power of Captive Nations. Confronting Vice President Nixon in July
1959, Khrushchev shouted, "This resolution stinks!" According to Nixon, "he
spelled out what he meant in earthy four letter words" (Dobriansky 1993).
Instead of exploiting the Soviet reaction to the Captive Nations Week
resolution, U.S. presidents ritually assured Moscow of the resolution's insignificance. The American government's official position was established ten
years before Captive Nations became law, in NSC 58/2. The policy study
argued that the American goal "must be the elimination of Soviet control" of
these nations, but that resorting to war to achieve liberation "should be rejected
as a practical alternative" (Garrett 1986,181). American inaction in response to
the Hungarian uprising in 1956, to the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in
1968, and to martial law in Poland in 1981 affirmed this U.S. position.
As American policy shifted to détente, the gap between foreign and domestic rhetoric widened. The Nixon administration provides a striking example, as
Henry Kissinger increasingly flirted with Metternichean projects of a stable
world that included the Sonnenfeldt Doctrine of a closer, organic relationship
between the USSR and Eastern Europe.
Gerald Ford realized the need to satisfy ethnic voters too late. In a debate
with Jimmy Carter before the 1976 election, he said that the United States
recognized Soviet domination of Poland. Protest from Polish-Americans was
significant. After the debate and foreshadowing President Bush's White House
meeting with the Ukrainian-Americans, President Ford received Polish-American leaders in an attempt to minimize the political damage. He lost the ethnic
vote. And the election.
16
ΠΝΚ
Of all the postwar presidents, Ronald Reagan wielded Captive Nations most
deftly. Reagan elevated the week to unprecedented heights. Crafting human
rights and democratic self-determination into his "Evil Empire" strategy,
Reagan was the first president to make the annual observance a public event
and used it to showcase or announce policy. For example, he used his 1988
address to support anti-communist Afghan freedom fighters. He included a
letter received from Soviet dissidents. "Mr. President," they wrote, "We can
hardly envisage the struggle for human rights without a straggle for the rights
of nations. And as today, so in the future, the freedom of nations is one of the
main guarantees for human rights" (Reagan 1988).
To the ethnic community, it seemed as though an American president finally
grasped the potential power of the Captive Nations concept. Reagan elevated
Ukrainian-Americans to prominent positions. Among others, Lev Dobriansky,
the author of the Captive Nations resolution, was appointed Ambassador to
Bermuda. Reagan recognized him and other prominent members of the community at the yearly Captive Nations events.
During President Reagan's terms hopes soared in Ukraine. In 1990, when
the independence movement began to gain momentum, an American visitor
asked Ukrainians, "why now?" The reply, whether from "parliamentarian or
peasant," was almost unanimous. The first reason given was Chernobyl and the
need to regain control of Ukraine from Moscow. The second reason was
Ronald Reagan (McConnell 1993).
"Chicken Kiev "
In 1993, the Ukrainian National Association (Washington, DC) estimated that,
after eight years of tough Reagan anti-communism, East European ethnic
support for the Republican Party stood at 85 percent. At the end of the Bush
presidency, the GOP had support of only 55 percent of this vote. How did this
happen? The answer centers on the Kyiv speech and what it demonstrated to
these voters. More than anything, they saw Bush as committed to the old, bipolar
world order rather than to true anti-communism.
Beschloss and Talbott (1993, 4) tell the story of a limousine ride which
Gorbachev and Bush shared on 10 December 1987. Echoing the Kissinger and
Dobrynin incident years before, Bush told Gorbachev that no matter how hard
a line he had to take against communism to get elected president in 1988, the
Soviet president should "ignore" what he said. Bush demonstrated that the
private operational language that he used with Gorbachev was diametrically
opposed to the image-laden messages he reserved for American voters.
Throughout his presidency, Bush's relationship with Gorbachev grew more
important in his decision making. The relationship helped him win essential
Soviet backing in the Gulf War. Without Gorbachev and a strong, stable center
in Moscow, Bush believed that he could not count on such help in the future.
17
His approach was consistent. He backed states rather than individuals, even
states that were communist and repressive. An early indicator of this was his
backing of Chinese communist leaders against the Tibetans (Bush 1977, 6465) and his later support of these leaders after the Tianenmen Square massacre
(1989). When Gorbachev authorized bloody crackdowns in the Baltics, Bush
found it more important to support the Soviet leader than to condemn his
policies and jeopardize their relationship. These cases indicate that, even
though Bush took a strong domestic stand against communism, his concern for
the old system, which he found more stable than the emerging alternative,
prevailed in the end. This left him dangerously out of touch with the rapid pace
of change. He became reactionary. He thus was not a human rights president,
but neither was he a political realist.
On 2 January 1991, Soviet troops seized buildings in Vilnius, Lithuania. On
the 13th, these troops killed 15 Lithuanians there. One week later, Soviet troops
killed four Latvians in Riga. Bush's reaction to the "Bloody Sundays" was
restrained—his responses were similar to his predecessors' responses after
Hungary in 1956, Prague in 1968, and Poland in 1981 (although Vilnius and
Riga were not the same as these crackdowns).
After these events, Bush found, increasingly, that he did not enjoy the
political latitude of his predecessors. Whereas Cold War containment policy as
outlined in NSC 58/2 rejected liberation because it required force, liberation in
1991 required only diplomatic recognition. Ethnic voters recognized this fact.
It also made possible a resurgence of the Democrats, recently liberated from
the fear of being labeled as "soft on communism."
If Bush had understood these facts, his August 1991 speech in Kyiv might
have been very different. Gorbachev had implored him not to go to Kyiv at all,
explaining that the trip would give ground to the Ukrainian "nationalists." Bush
decided to make the trip, but he showed the speech he was to make there to
Gorbachev while he was in Moscow (Beschloss and Talbott 1993, 417). The
speech's attacks on "suicidal nationalism," which so infuriated both Ukrainians
and Americans, were not in the original speech that Bush brought from Washington. Rather, they were inserted after consulting with Gorbachev
(Chumachenko 1993). On Air Force One, during the flight from Moscow to
Kyiv, the President told reporters that:
. . . he had discussed the visit with Gorbachev to see if he had any concerns.
He said the Soviet president did not and added "There's confidence in Moscow that the Ukraine will come along on the union treaty.... No, there is no
heartburn at all that I can detect about going here. And I think we'll handle it
with proper balance" (Devroy and Dobbs 1991, Al).
The proper balance included making it clear to the deputies that the United
States intended to back Moscow, while not fueling sentiment for independence
in Ukraine or alienating voters in the U.S.
The speech in Kyiv had the opposite effect from that which Bush desired.
The picture of "suicidal nationalists" which Gorbachev had painted for Bush
18
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was not the reality on the ground. When Bush walked to the podium of the
Ukrainian Supreme Soviet his audience knew much more about him than he
knew about them. This was because the Ukrainians already knew what he was
going to say. The day before "Chicken Kiev," Ivan Drach, one of the leaders of
the democratic party Rukh, rebutted his speech, criticizing Bush's Moscowcentrism and misunderstanding of Soviet reality. Drach knew what Bush would
say because of glasnost and e-mail. Even as Bush and Secretary of State Baker
negotiated with Gorbachev and Foreign Minister Shevardnadze, UkrainianAmericans were communicating with their colleagues in Ukraine via e-mail
several times a day. Frustrated by the pursuit of traditional channels of lobbying, Ukrainian-Americans had developed a parallel diplomacy with Rukh
members in an effort to level the playing field.8
Not only did the speech demonstrate Bush's reliance on Gorbachev, it also
showed that Bush believed that Gorbachev could do what he said he would do:
create a liberal empire. Gorbachev believed that communism could gradually
be reformed to embrace both democracy in the republics and a strong center
that controlled it. Vilnius and Riga demonstrated, though, that with reform
come raised popular expectations, revolt, and the need for harsh measures to
reinstate control. The "bloody Sundays" were not aberrations of perestroïka,
they were a part of it. Nor did Gorbachev indicate that he would abandon
communism for reform. He told Time magazine in June 1990, "I am now, just
as I've always been, a convinced Communist" (Thomas 1991). He defined
democracy as "enthusiastic discipline," and emphasized this point in an address
to the Communist Party of Ukraine Central Committee plenum in the fall of
1990. This staunch defense of communism, and the lengths to which
Gorbachev was obviously willing to go to preserve it, should have made it clear
to Bush that democracy and communism could not coexist in the Soviet Union.
Furthermore, the Baltics made it clear that democracy could not exist in the
non-Russian republics without independence.
Despite all this, Bush contended in Kyiv that the United States did not have
to make a choice between communism and democracy:
Some people have urged the United States to choose between supporting
President Gorbachev and supporting independence-minded leaders throughout the U.S.S.R. I consider this a false choice.... We will maintain the
strongest possible relationship with the Soviet Government of President
Gorbachev. But we also appreciate the new realities of life in the U.S.S.R.
(Bush 1991).
The fallout from "Chicken Kiev" affected not only the Ukrainians in
Ukraine and the Ukrainian-Americans in the U.S. More than one observer has
maintained that the speech actually helped precipitate the August 1991 coup
(see, for instance, Goble 1992). Iwanciw (1993a) believes that the coup plotters
were led to believe that Bush would support anyone in Moscow. They did not
understand his attachment to the person of Gorbachev. Nonetheless, the day
after the coup, speaking from Kennebunkport, the President was restrained in
19
his reaction. He told reporters that he believed that Soviet Vice President
Ianaev, one of the coup plotters, might be a reformer, too (Goble 1993).
There was immediate reaction to the speech in Washington, as well. Senator
Dennis DeConcini (D-AZ) condemned the "Chicken Kiev" speech on the
Senate floor the next day, saying, "The President's veiled attempts to equate
the relationship between the center and the republics with American Federalism ignores both the brutal history and involuntary nature of this union"
(Congressional Record 2 August 1991). Thus the speech had exposed the
GOP's foreign policy flank just as the official election year was about to begin.
Democrats were given an opportunity that they could ill afford to pass up. Both
houses drafted resolutions urging the President to recognize Ukraine and establish diplomatic relations. Ironically, the move was not strictly partisan, since
members familiar with the Soviet system who wanted to see it destroyed came
from both the anti-communist (predominantly Republican) and human rights
(predominantly Democrat) camps.
Senators DeConcini and D'Amato (R-NY) sponsored the Senate resolution
(Sen.Con.Res.65), while Representatives Ritter (R-PA) and Hertel (D-MI)
sponsored the House resolution (H.Con.Res.212). In their "dear colleague"
letter, the congressmen called fellow members to arms: "Now is the time to
show Congressional support for the efforts of the people of Ukraine in their
struggle to take their place among the family of free and democratic nations"
(Ritter and Hertel 1991). First, they addressed human rights and Ukraine's antinuclear stance:
Since its declaration [of independence on August 24, 1991], the Ukrainian
parliament has released political prisoners and has pledged to abide by the
Helsinki Final Act and other agreements of the Conference on Security and
Cooperation in Europe. It has also asserted that it wants to rid itself of all
nuclear weapons on Ukraine's soil (Ritter and Hertel 1991).
Second, the legislators cited Ukraine's history and cultural autonomy from
Russia, as a further reason for its right to sovereignty. Finally, and note well,
they asserted that it was an American security interest to promote democratic
governments over communist ones: "By supporting Ukraine's democratically
elected government, we can act to encourage the further development of democracy and a free market economy" (Ritter and Hertel 1991).
The Ukrainian-American community likewise was eager to exploit Bush's
Kyiv speech, in order to gain recognition for an independent Ukraine. Throughout the late 1980s and 1990s, most of the community's "dear colleague" letters
to Congress were generated through the Helsinki Commission, with which the
community was working on human rights issues. By the time Ukrainian independence became a possibility, the community's relationship with the members
of Congress that sat on the Commission was well developed. For example, in
1990 and 1991, thousands of Ukrainian-Americans wrote, telephoned, and
visited their representatives to seek the release of Stepan Khmara, a Ukrainian
deputy who had been imprisoned for defending a woman who had protested in
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Kyiv for Ukrainian independence. The lobby's success was extraordinary: 165
members of Congress sent letters to President Gorbachev demanding Khmara's
release (Deychakiwsky 1993).
There is a shared conviction in Washington that election returns have a
proven point (Mayhew 1974). Aware of this fact, leaders of the ethnic lobby
urged the community to protest with the vote as well. In 1991, Pennsylvanians
went to the polls in a special election for the senate seat left open by the death
of John Heinz. Pennsylvania has an East European ethnic population of more
than 18 percent. The lobby decided to use the election as a referendum, sending
the GOP a message about Bush's reaction to the "Bloody Sundays," his handling of Baltic recognition, and his speech in Kyiv. In the election the Democratic contender Harris Wofford, an underdog, easily defeated Bush's choice,
Attorney General Dick Thornburgh.
The ethnic community advertised the Republican defeat as due (at least in
part) to its protest vote. Still, the ethnic division of the Republican National
Committee (RNC) conducted no post-election polls. Irrespective of whether
one agrees with the connection between the election and the Administration's
handling of foreign policy (one RNC official claimed that the election "made
no connection between foreign policy decisions and the domestic campaign"
[anonymous interview]), or even if one does not hold that absolute numbers of
a lobby indicate the importance of its outreach on particular issues, still—and
this is the important point—President Bush did make the connection between
Pennsylvania and Kyiv (Beschloss and Talbott 1993, 448). The Pennsylvania
vote alerted him to the prospect of losing the East European ethnic vote in
1992. He realized he must act.
The Administration
Within the Administration itself at this time there was a struggle taking place
with regard to Ukraine. One of the purposes of Bush's Kyiv speech was to settle
this internal bureaucratic dispute. The Secretary of State was arguing for
withholding recognition, while the Secretary of Defense was arguing for
immediate recognition. Instead of settling the dispute, the speech fired the
debate, turning the President's resolve—as shown in the speech—into indecision
in the speech's wake. The President was compelled to make a decision regarding
recognition before 1 December, the date set for the Ukrainian referendum on
independence. This was because polls in Ukraine showed strong support for
independence (the Parliament had voted for independence on 28 August and set
the referendum date at that time). Bush could not escape facing Ukraine one way
or another. His Administration did not provide him a unified position.
On 21 October, in an effort to promote the State Department position in
Congress, Assistant Secretary of State Thomas Niles—whom Bush later appointed as his emissary to Kyiv—testified before the Senate Finance Subcom-
21
mittee, telling Senator Bill Bradley (D-NI):
In 1917 [the center] collapsed and they had a period of instability and independent republics grew up . . . But after several years . . . the center was
reestablished... so I do not think we have to necessarily assume that the
trend—which is very clear today of authority and power and sovereignty
away from the center to the republics—is necessarily the last word (Ukraine
2000 1991).
While some Administration officials went to Congress, others went to the
press in an effort to sway decision-makers. On 25 November senior aides from
State told the Washington Post that:
. . . diplomatic recognition of Ukraine will be withheld, for example, until the
republic's elected leaders have taken concrete steps to fulfill arms treaty
obligations . . . these include the 1990 East-West Conventional Forces in Europe Treaty . . . the 1991 U.S.-Soviet Strategic Arms Reduction
Treaty . . . and international treaties barring development of biological weapons or nuclear arms capabilities (Hoffman 1991).
More importantly, the aide indicated that the State Department position
depended upon Moscow: "We want to see what [Soviet President] Gorbachev
and [Russian Federation President Boris] Yeltsin do" (Hoffman 1991). The
same day, an official from the Defense Department released Secretary
Cheney's position. This official said, "Washington should 'get in on the ground
floor' with other nations likely to extend early diplomatic recognition so as 'not
to sour our relations with such an important state'" (ibid.). He criticized the
State Department's position as finding "the breakup of the Soviet Union a
worrisome prospect because of 'nostalgia' for dealing with a strong, central
Soviet government that no longer exists" (ibid.). Other officials mirrored executive fence-sitting, and made clear the fact that Bush had not yet expressed
an opinion about how the matter would be settled.
Adding to the Administration's trouble in promulgating a clear policy was
the fact that its NATO allies likewise were being cautious. London, with
Washington's aid, was urging Canada not to grant early recognition. Canada,
however, was responding that pressure from its very large ethnic Ukrainian
population would force it to act. (In fact, Canada was the second country after
Poland to recognize Ukraine as sovereign.) Germany was recommending a
compromise that would stop short of diplomatic recognition, such as an economic treaty.
Finally, the Russian Federation was lobbying Washington as well. Foreign
Minister Andrei Kozyrev met Bush in late November and urged him not to
recognize Ukraine, because it would "play into the hand of the [Russian
nationalist] extremists" (Washington Post 1 December 1991: A35).
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The Congress
On 20 November, shortly before the Senate went into recess, Senator
DeConcini attached the Senate resolution—which now expressed "the sense of
the Congress that the President should recognize the independence of Ukraine"
(Congressional Record 22 November 1991)—to the Supplemental Appropriations Bill. As the senator had hoped, the bill passed easily, undeterred by
debate. The resolution stated:
It is the sense of the Congress that the President—
(1) should recognize Ukraine's independence and undertake steps toward the
establishment of full diplomatic relations with Ukraine should the December
1, 1991 referendum confirm Ukrainian parliament's independence declaration, and
(2) should use United States assistance, trade, and other programs to support
the Government and encourage the further development of democracy and a
free market in Ukraine (Congressional Record 22 November 1991).
To ensure the resolution had the desired effect on the White House, the
senator faxed the results to Roman Popadiuk in the NSC. Members of the lobby
sent the approved bill to their White House contacts, hoping it would be the
element that would break down the Administration's resistance to recognition
(McConnell 1993). It worked. The President agreed to meet with UkrainianAmericans. The meeting was to be held on 27 November.
The Community
From the ethnic community's perspective, the meeting had many fathers.
Ukraine 2000 started its efforts to secure the meeting in February 1991, while
other groups such as the Ukrainian National Association lobbied as well. The
President had rejected several proposals for the meeting, but the lobby continued
the press. Roman Popadiuk submitted a proposal for a meeting through his NSC
channels. One of the President's public liaison officers—who was in personal
contact with Ukraine 2000—intercepted the NSC proposal and combined it with
several previous requests, arranging a proposal that the President "could not
refuse" (McConnell 1993). His acceptance was based on the mounting, high
political stakes.
On 27 November the Ukrainian-American delegation waited for the President in the Roosevelt Room of the White House West Wing. Anticipating
further stonewalling, it had drawn up its argument and appointed a spokesperson. Secretary Cheney did not attend the meeting; however, he had met with
Bush, Baker, and Scowcroft before the meeting to convince the President of the
wisdom of early recognition.
23
To the surprise of the delegation, Bush responded to its opening remarks by
saying that he looked forward to watching fair and free voting in Ukraine. He
said he was anxious to salute the vote of the people of Ukraine and to work
with Ukraine on details:
In his description of the "details," the President talked about nuclear weapons,
CSCE and the CFE and other treaties. Quickly he added that he had no reason
to believe that these things were stumbling blocks to recognition. Indeed, he
emphasized that Ukraine had said all of the right things; "all of the right
signs" have been coming from Ukraine. He emphasized that he wants to move
quickly.... He noted that Ukraine is "entitled to independence" (McConnell
1991).
After the meeting, members of the delegation immediately sent word to their
Rukh contacts about the President's softened stand. Various Americans and
Ukrainians in Kyiv at the time have reported that this news, in addition to the
victory of the Senate resolution, was widely advertised and enthusiastically
welcomed in Ukraine in the days before the referendum.
Ukraine
Whether or not the resolution and White House meeting had any impact on the
referendum is difficult to gauge. Before the vote, support for independence was
predicted at 70 percent. The actual results were an overwhelming 90.32 percent
("Independence!" 1991).
The Community
Before all the votes had been tallied, the administration announced that it would
not recognize Ukraine immediately, but would "welcome" a vote for independence
and send an emissary to Kyiv (Hiatt 1991). Bush may have believed that this
compromise, on the heels of the meeting, would be enough to keep the ethnic
community satisfied (and therefore retain its vote), while not betraying Gorbachev.
The Washington Post made it clear that this tactic would not work. Alongside the
Administration's announcement, the press highlighted the ethnic community's
highly negative reaction.
Recognition
In the wake of this, the Administration was forced again to compromise. In what
appeared to be the best way to support the failing Gorbachev and to accept the
inevitability of Ukrainian independence, the President waited until December
25th—the day Gorbachev resigned—to grant formal recognition. Contrary to
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State Department desires, Ukraine was not required to sign CFE, START, or
NPT before recognition was granted.
The Mechanics of the Lobby
The success of the Ukrainian-American lobby in 1991 was the result of a
decades-long struggle for political influence. Assimilationists in the last two
decades pointed to a steady decline in its influence since the 1950s. As the events
of 1991 showed, however, this was not the case. A change in the structure of the
lobby in the 1970s increased its influence, while making it harder to detect as a
lobby. Despite its diffusion in the 1970s, the lobby retained the political
characteristics imparted to it by its three waves of immigration.
Three aspects of the immigrations are noteworthy. First, the third wave,
comprising mostly Displaced Persons (DPs) from World War II, was politically the most active. Second, the urban areas in which the latter two waves
settled gave the immigrants electoral significance. Third, each wave brought
with it political, religious, and cultural disagreements from the homeland,
producing infighting among Ukrainian-American organizations that persists to
the present. These aspects explain both the large number of the community's
organizations and its periods of political ineffectiveness. (To have influence,
lobbyists must convince members of Congress that they can mobilize voters.
Political infighting created countervailing factions in the lobby, thus no one
group could claim to influence or speak for the entire voting community.) To
achieve the cohesion displayed in the letter writing campaigns and independence demonstrations of the 1980s and early 1990s, the lobby had to overcome
this inherent obstacle.
The first large immigration of Ukrainians arrived as part of the great southern- and eastern-European immigration of 1880-1914 (Harvard Encyclopedia
1980, 665).9 According to U.S. immigration records, there were at least
500,000 first- and second-generation Ukrainians living in the United States by
1914. Most of this early group came from the areas of Carpatho-Ukraine and
Galicia, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (Kuropas 1985, 39-40).
Because Ukraine as a politically independent entity was non-existent, and
general political awareness was low, most of these immigrants did not call
themselves "Ukrainians," but rather "Rusyns," "Ruthenians," "Russians,"
"Poles," or "Austrians" depending on the area from which they came. Unlike
the homelands of immigrants like the Irish, Americans were generally unaware
of a separate country of Ukraine—this forced subsequent generations to explain the political reality of their homeland, thus reinforcing their ethnic identity. Furthermore, because of the political domination of their homeland by
foreign powers—Turks, Russians, Poles, the Nazis, and, finally, the Soviet
government—liberation became the hallmark of Ukrainian nationalism, and of
Ukrainian-American ethnic awareness.
25
The second wave of immigration arrived between 1920 and 1939, bringing
20,000 Ukrainians. It was marked by factionalism and by three groups: the
Socialists, the Monarchists, and the Nationalists (see Kuropas 1991). The last
group, rooted in the failed attempt of 1917-1920 for an independent Ukrainian
state, prevailed. Growing American anti-socialist sentiment and a large influx
of anti-communist Ukrainians after World War Π helped them.
The third and final wave brought another 85,000 between 1947 and 1955.
From 1955 to its collapse in 1991, the Soviet Union restricted Ukrainian
immigration to the U.S. to about 5,000. The third wave differed from previous
immigrations socially, economically, and politically. Whereas previous groups
were generally illiterate and fleeing poverty, postwar immigrants were urbandwelling professionals fleeing political persecution (again see Kuropas 1991).
Until they recognized the longevity of the Soviet regime, the postwar immigrants viewed their American home as temporary. Highly politicized, they had
an extraordinary tradition of self-organization and added numerous organizations to the two existing umbrella groups (Subtelny 1991, 204).
That this last wave came from the highly nationalistic western region of
Galicia was a mixed blessing for the American diaspora. The fervent bonds
which preserved a high degree of cultural, linguistic, and religious awareness
even into the 1990s, also preserved political disputes. One split preserved the
Bandera and Mel'nyk factions of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists
(OUN). The Bandera faction prevailed in the American diaspora, but failed to
sustain a large membership for two reasons. First, its integral nationalism
alienated many in the more assimilated generations and even those among the
newer immigrants. Second, its approach raised the question of divided loyalties
among the politicians they lobbied (see Armstrong 1990). The latter is a
common criticism of American ethnics. As the Jewish-American lobby has
shown, though, it does not have to be debilitating. The second and third phases
of the lobby were successful largely because they avoided purely nationalistic
appeals for their homeland. Instead, they phrased their message in terms of
American security interests. These groups envisioned an independent Ukraine
as the only way to balance the expansionist Russian threat to European and
American security. This idea is central to, and provides the continuity for, the
three phases of the lobby (see below).
In terms of demographics, unlike the first wave, which settled primarily in
the coal regions of rural Pennsylvania, the second and third waves came to the
cities. Six cities became and remain the community's major centers of population: New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Detroit, and Chicago.
These cities also comprise important swing voting districts, making immigration patterns key to political importance. Ukrainian-Americans generally live
in areas of high East European settlement. The East European population
exceeds ten percent in twelve states: Connecticut, Delaware, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Minnesota, New Jersey, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin. While some have estimated the total Ukrainian diaspora (the common
26
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term for referring to the community within the community) in the U.S. as low
as 487,600 (Kuropas 1991, 998), others maintain that it is as high as 1,500,000
(cf. Kuropas 1985,45). The 1980 census found 1,500,000 Americans of Ukrainian descent. The figure commonly used in analyses in the mid-'90s is
740,000. The cause of the disparity in estimates may be related to the problems
of self-definition and domestic understanding described above. It should be
noted, though, that the lack of precise data on population has not seemed to
diminish the political clout of the ethnic lobby (and indeed may call into
question the correlation between absolute numbers of a lobby and its political
success). When Bush agreed to meet with Ukrainian-American leaders, he
acknowledged their political clout without any real data on the broader
community's size or voting habits. The lobby's success, then, may have more
to do with the perception of its impact on swing votes in the urban districts in
which the majority of Ukrainian-Americans live.
Another important factor in the political clout of the Ukrainian-American
lobby was the postwar group's almost exclusive concentration on foreign
policy. (And in this a strong parallel can be drawn between third-wave Ukrainians and the later Cuban immigration, which also subordinates domestic issues
to its foreign policy cause.) The lobby differed in this from other existing
American ethnic groups, which had other political agendas as well. Irish and
German ethnic groups failed to prevent a U.S. alliance with Britain against
Germany in the two World Wars. These groups could be appeased, at least
partially, by socio-economic promises. Arriving just as the United States was
abandoning isolationism and turning outward, the Ukrainian DPs ("displaced
persons," ie., World War II refugees) could not be so assuaged. As described
above, Eisenhower dislodged the ethnic groups from the Democratic Party in
1952 (Weed 1973, 143).
In 1968, this strategy again proved successful. Nixon's ethnic emphasis,
coupled with the Republicans' sturdy anti-communist plank, kept the ethnic
groups in the GOP during the 1970s and 1980s. Even their more assimilated
children, who tended toward a human-rights focus if they were at all politically
active, remained largely loyal to the anti-communist rhetoric. Reagan's "EvilEmpire" approach to Soviet policy, his elevation of Captive Nations Week to a
White House observance, and his appointment of members of the UkrainianAmerican community to diplomatic and political positions strengthened this
bond.
Following Reagan's presidency, the Bush Administration and the GOP
showed a complacency toward the ethnic vote, but this complacency was not
unfounded, given past history. The mobilization between 1988 and 1991 of the
ethnic vote against the GOP surprised even the Ukrainian-Americans themselves: many of the younger members of the community shared Washington's
skepticism of their political significance. They had attributed the lobby's only
mixed success partly to the nationalistic tenor and fractious nature of the
postwar organizations. Hence, the preference for fraternal or church groups
27
over political organizations was seen by many of them as the beginning of the
end of the lobby. Assimilation was reinforcing this prediction. In 1980 only
123,000 of 730,000 Ukrainian-Americans declared Ukrainian to be their primary language (Subtelny 1991, 255). Moreover, all indications of membership
in organizations, churches, and associations were around 100,000.
In the face of these dismal indicators of the lobby's failing state, what
explains its influence on Congress in 1991? The simple answer is liberation.
Even though the Ukrainian-Americans followed traditional patterns of assimilation (intermarriage, use of English, etc.), they did not lose the political
objective of liberation. In a survey of Ukrainian-American youth, 82 percent of
the respondents agreed that being Ukrainian "carried with it the obligation to
work toward a free and independent Ukraine" (Harvard Encyclopedia 1980,
1008). Even the increasing use of English and decreasing involvement in ethnic
groups was deceiving, since large numbers maintained Ukrainian as a second
language, and maintained community and cultural awareness through Saturday
schools and youth groups. Hence, when travel to Ukraine became possible in
the late 1980s, a large number of these "assimilated" ethnics used their business and professional connections to launch joint ventures, and form political
exchanges and institutions in the U.S. and in Ukraine.10
A pattern of assimilation thus did not preclude the lobby's upsurge in the
1980s. This is because of the strong political component—liberation—in
Ukrainian cultural awareness, and the persistence of cultural awareness despite
overt patterns of assimilation. The political nature of the postwar immigration,
coupled with its settlement in swing voting districts, re-enforced the lobby's
political potential.
The children of the third wave of immigration make up a large number of
active Ukrainian-American lobbyists. Of those interviewed for this study, the
majority were children of this wave. All had similar political views. Those
views were marked by membership in the Republican Party, work in the
Reagan and Bush administrations, and disillusionment with Bush policies,
which caused all those interviewed to vote Democrat in 1992, despite Republican Party membership. Finally, Bush emphasized anti-communism more than
independence. To Ukrainian-Americans, independence was more important
than anti-communism. Therefore, as will be seen below, the Republicans'
catering to ethnics and their monopoly on anti-communism could not overcome Bush's anti-independence stand during the sweeping changes of 19891991. This forces a reassessment of the lobby's seeming failure in the Cold
War period. The lobby underwent three phases before liberation. Adapting to
the domestic and international political climate, each chose a different structure
and strategy. Yet each built upon the initial success of the Captive Nations idea
and the fundamental ideological problem it posed for American policy makers.
28
FINK
Three Phases of the Lobby
The three phases of the lobby between 1948 and Ukrainian independence were
determined by three phases of domestic and international politics : the immediate
postwar period, the rise of human rights as an issue in diplomacy, and the postCold War period. Three basic concepts correspond to these three phases: Captive
Nations (World War II to the present), human rights (1976 to the present), and
Rukh support organizations (1989 to Ukrainian independence).
Captive Nations Week
In the 1980s, the lobby's human rights focus was new in that it mobilized
dormant generations of Ukrainian-Americans. In this way it gained the grassroots support and alliances needed to motivate Congress to support the legislation
to recognize Ukraine. However, human rights and congressional lobbying are
not new to Ukrainian-Americans. In fact, for the postwar generation of UkrainianAmericans, human rights and liberation of their homeland were coterminous.
They were embodied in the Captive Nations Week resolution (see below
Appendix F). As mentioned above, this was part of the Republican effort to
dislodge ethnic support from the Democrats following World War II. The
community embraced the concept—authored by a Ukrainian-American—as its
primary vehicle for keeping liberation of Ukraine on the political agenda.
Successive U.S. administrations paid little more than lip-service to the idea. In
fact, some tried to abandon it in practice all together. The Soviet reaction was
quite different, however. Understanding how volatile their nationalities problem
was, Soviet leaders felt threatened by the yearly observance.
The small group of university professors who spoke out for the Captive
Nations idea argued that "the nationalism of the non-Russian nations was
constantly treated by leading American scholars and journalists as 'separatism'
or 'fascism' and the very existence of some of these nations was negated"
(Smal-Stocki 1960, 97). Nonetheless, they found many in Washington who
supported their cause. Secretary of State Dean Acheson on 26 June 1951,
before the House Foreign Affairs Committee said:
The ruling power of Moscow has long been an imperial power and now rules
a greatly extended empire. This is the challenge our foreign policy is required
to meet.
It is clear that this process of encroachment and consolidation by which
Russia has grown in the last five hundred years from the Duchy of Moscovy
to a vast empire has got to be stopped (Smal-Stocki 1960,93).
But neither the Secretary's belated awareness of Russian expansionism, nor
the other proponents of national self-determination could compete with the
official policy of granting the Soviets a sphere of influence in Eastern Europe.
29
The concept had to be codified in law if it was to carry any weight at all—this
was the intrinsic importance of the Captive Nations Week resolution.
Even though every president since Eisenhower has observed the occasion,
every one also has sought to free himself of its restrictions. In 1977 Jimmy
Carter, although he was considered by many as the "human rights president,"
canceled the proclamation for the sake of detente. After intense criticism, he
reversed course and issued the proclamation. In 1990, Ukraine declared sovereignty, and President Bush eliminated mention of Ukraine in his Captive
Nations address because the resolution now had become a real possibility. The
lobby was able to "minimize negatives by having other nations taken out of the
declaration as [White House] staff would not include Ukraine" (McConnell
1990a, 2). Thus, the speech did not reflect the hard line against Ukrainian
sovereignty which the original speech writers intended.
Why, if the majority of scholars agreed that by the 1970s Captive Nations
Week was nothing more than window-dressing, was the speech still controversial in 1990? The answer lies in a general American misunderstanding of
nationalism, and subsequent underestimation of the resolution's importance in
diplomacy. American mirror-imaging of Soviet nationalities with American
ethnic groups has been one result of this. Therefore, many were unaware of
how sharply Soviet nerves were struck by the resolution. George Kennan,
father of Soviet "containment" policy, was one American who protested the
resolution. A Soviet specialist in the U.S. Foreign Service, he accompanied the
first U.S. ambassador to the Soviet Union in 1933, and assumed that post in
1952. Kennan's view of nationalism was common to most Cold War policy
makers. He believed that patriotism, or love of state, was admirable, while
nationalism, love of any unit smaller than the state, was "a terrible disease of
the human spirit" (Kennan 1993,80). This view of nationalism not only ignores
extensive research on the subject, but has proven inadequate in explaining
crises in Bosnia, Sudan, Nagorno-Karabakh, as well as disputes in Quebec,
Catalonia—indeed throughout the world in the 20th century. Yet, the misunderstanding of nationalism helps to explain U.S. condemnation of democratic
movements in Ukraine and other non-Russian republics in order to maintain
good relations with the communists. Kennan found Captive Nations Week a
nuisance if not an obstacle to this goal and, "in 1961, [he] conditioned his
acceptance as Ambassador to Yugoslavia on President Kennedy's promise not
to issue the annual proclamation. The President nevertheless did, thanks to
Chicago's Mayor Daley's intervention" (Dobriansky 1993, 6).
In Moscow, Khrushchev's protests were more vehement than Kennan's, as
noted above. In 1982, TASS condemned President Reagan's speech for "rudeness," "cynicism," and "interference in the internal affairs of the Soviet Union"
(Dobriansky 1993, 6). That same year Georgi Arbatov, director of the Institute
on American and Canadian Affairs, called the Week a threat to the Soviet
Union (ibid.). Strangely, this amazing admission went unnoticed by national
security staffs and professional sovietologists. Along with verbal condemna-
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tion, the Soviets attempted to overshadow the event in international affairs.
They adopted a policy of scheduling events to coincide with the observance,
such as the signing of the non-proliferation pact (ibid.).
Thus, even though many in Congress and in the American public had no
idea of the resolution's importance, policy makers in Moscow did. It is not
surprising that in April 1993, even after the Soviet collapse, Russian leaders
still lobbied Washington to abandon Captive Nations Week (Dobriansky pers.
comm.).
What, then, was the importance of Captive Nations Week for the effort to
secure diplomatic recognition for Ukraine? Most Ukrainian-Americans maintain that administrations were lukewarm to the idea, and that it could not
overcome a long history of American political focus on Moscow. At the same
time, they recognize that it kept the concept of an independent Ukraine on the
American political agenda. While congressmen may not have appreciated the
full weight of the concepts they proclaimed on the floor, still, the concept,
embodied in law and renewed in yearly symbolism and practice, was more
significant than the policy making elites ever knew.
Human Rights and the Helsinki Commission
Although the younger ethnics—the first generation born, raised, and educated
in the United States—believed Captive Nations kept Ukraine on the political
map, few felt the Executive Department was serious about it. The same
traditional Ukrainian-American organizations felt likewise. Even so, there was
increasing public interest in human rights and in political prisoners, many of
whom were in the Soviet Union. Seizing the opportunity to diversify their
approach, many young members of the community hitched their star to human
rights in order to keep the idea of Ukrainian independence alive in Washington.
They did so despite criticism of "betrayal" by the more traditional factions, such
as the Banderites.
During the same period in the 1970s, many individual Ukrainian-Americans
had worked their way up the governmental ladder. In many respects it was
these individuals and not the organized groups which became the most effective conduits of information about Ukraine to Congress and the Executive. By
the 1980s many had gained appointments in the Republican administrations,
while others were members or staff members in Congress or in other government or non-government agencies. Some of them did not emphasize their
ethnic background, while others split their time between ethnic and governmental organizations. Hence, by the 1980s the lobby had taken on an unconventional structure, one comprising formal and informal personal contacts
throughout the government, and one not easily discerned.
To the morally-based National Captive Nations Council (NCNC), the human rights issue was old hat. The Committee was diligent in explaining to
31
Congress the difference between the Carterite focus on civil rights in authoritarian Latin America and the hierarchy of human rights: personal, civil, and
national (Dobriansky 1993, 11). After 1975, however, this fight was taken up
by the Commission on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), known as
the "Helsinki Commission."
The numerous "dear colleague" letters which alerted Congress to Soviet
human rights violations, sprang largely from this office. In addition to these
letters, the Commission was involved in the unconventional diplomacy (compared with traditional bilateral negotiations) of the delegation. Unlike the State
and Congressional delegations, staff members (including some UkrainianAmericans) were full members of the groups which negotiated directly with the
52 members of the CSCE. While the State Department preferred to keep the
delegations' demands abstract, Commission members insisted upon naming the
names of Soviet political prisoners. The Soviets were forced to sit and listen.
Consequently, there was a noticeable difference between the Madrid Conference of 1983 and the Vienna meeting of 1989. As one Helsinki staff member
described it, "the Commission had strengthened the spine of State," and by
Vienna, the U.S. had taken the lead in human rights issues.
Because of the Helsinki Commission's structure and mission, it became a
natural vehicle for Ukrainian-Americans to lobby Congress. Not only formal
political and fraternal organizations, but individual members of the community
could be heard in this forum. When asked whether the Commission went to the
diaspora for information or vice-versa, one senior staff member replied, "The
Commission sought out and received information from a wide variety of Ukrainian-American organizations, but we avoided getting into the in-fighting
among groups" (Deychakiwsky 1993).
In order to maintain linkage during the 1980s, the lobby kept constant
pressure on Congress through the Commission—as well as directly through
Congressional offices—to codify Ukrainian interests. They collaborated on
several pieces of legislation, including: the 1988 legislation prohibiting any
U.S. official from taking part in the Soviet Union's celebrations of the Millennium of the Christianization of Kyivan Rus' until liberation of the Ukrainian
Catholic and Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Churches; the 19 May 1989
Senate letter to Secretary Gorbachev protesting Soviet harassment of Ukrainians campaigning for human, religious, cultural, and national rights; the 15
November 1989 Senate letter asking President Bush to urge President
Gorbachev to legalize the banned Ukrainian churches; the 1990 Joint resolution authorizing a week of commemoration for the victims of the 1932-1933
forced famine in Ukraine; and the 1991 Senate bill requiring all aid to go
directly to the republics of the Soviet Union.
By the late 1980s, the lobby had established a well-exercised network in
Washington. It provided the framework for the next phase of the lobby. The
extraordinary events in Ukraine precipitated the final phase: the mobilization
of the entire community through Rukh11 support groups.
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Rukh Support and Mobilizing the Larger Community
Rukh support groups marked the third and final phase of the lobby before
Ukrainian independence. Founded on the Captive Nations concept, these new
groups used the political ties made in the human rights phase and established new
ones. The community formed 23 Rukh support organizations, designating the
Washington office, Ukraine 2000, their umbrella organization and government
liaison office. Their efforts built upon the Congressional Commission of the
Famine in Ukraine, the Millennial celebrations of the Christianization of Kyivan
Rus', the famine commemoration legislation, and, finally, on Rukh support and
diplomatic recognition. Two things set this phase apart from the previous two.
First, the new groups had daily contact with democrats in Ukraine, using
electronic mail. This allowed them real-time intelligence which the State
Department and CIA lacked. Second, the once solid bond between the ethnic
community and the Republican Party was faltering.
This final phase formally began in the early 1980s with the Congressional
Commission on the Famine in Ukraine. The Commission's findings, published
20 June 1990, were hailed in Ukraine as "unmatched by any investigation" of
the Soviet system in Ukraine (Drach 1991b, 3). The newly-revealed information on the Soviets' forced starvation of millions of Ukrainians in 1932-1933,
like the 1986 Chernobyl disaster, was a primary catalyst for the independence
movement. The famine legislation met significant resistance in both Houses.
Thus, the lobby, still in its fledgling stages in its human rights orientation,
pursued ad hoc lobbying techniques.
The second important breakthrough for the lobby was the 1988 celebration
of the millennium of Christianity in Kyivan Rus'. Again, the legislation was
controversial. Moscow wanted to keep the focus of the event entirely on
Russia, not Ukraine. This reinforced the Russian claim that Kyivan Rus' is a
Russian and not a Ukrainian legacy; hence, that Ukraine has been a territory of
Russia since A.D. 988 and has no legitimate claim to independence. As they did
for the famine commission, Ukrainian-Americans formed an ad hoc committee
from their existing groups. The legislation passed the Senate easily, but several
members of the House wanted all references to Ukraine removed and replaced
with "USSR" (McConnell 1993). Additionally, the members wanted to remove
all references to the Ukrainian Catholic and Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Churches. The Churches, banned by Stalin, were still harshly repressed by
Gorbachev. Ukrainian-American organizations and the ad hoc committee refused to support the proposed changes. A logjam resulted and was not broken
until the Supreme Soviet of Ukraine sent a letter condemning the legislation as
a "capitalist plot." It passed ten days later.
The significance of the commemoration legislation was that it prohibited all
American officials from attending any commemorative event until the banned
Ukrainian Churches were legalized. This affected the upcoming Moscow summit. Reagan's attendance at the events would have lent further legitimacy to
33
Gorbachev's harsh policy toward the Churches and the fledgling independence
movement in Western Ukraine. Not until sponsors of the initiative informed
White House staff was President Reagan aware that he could not attend the
millennial celebrations in Moscow to which Gorbachev had invited him.
Both of these cases were important to Ukrainian-Americans because they
re-established a formal lobby in Washington. This lobby was cemented by the
third major event, the formation of Rukh. Rukh's founding congress took place
in September 1989. The following month, Volodymyr YavorivsTcyi came to
America. He was the first Ukrainian parliamentarian to visit the U.S. Quite
charismatic, he inspired the younger generation of Ukrainian-Americans.
Ukrainian-Americans who did not belong to existing ethnic organizations began to form Rukh support organizations. Large groups formed in Chicago and
Detroit, smaller organizations formed in California and in states with lower
concentrations of Ukrainians. The Washington, D.C. group, the Washington
Committee in Support of Ukraine, or "Ukraine 2000," was designated the
government relations organization for the 23 committees that were organized
nation-wide. Its primary tasks were submitting testimony to Congress and
making sure that Rukh members met with influential members of the White
House staff, the Congress, the Defense Department, the NSC, the press, and
various Washington think tanks. The second task was made possible because
Ukraine 2000's director, Robert McConnell, was a former Reagan Administration Assistant Attorney General who retained several close contacts in the
upper echelons of the Bush Administration.
Ukraine 2000 hosted several Rukh members. Many of them had spent
several years in Soviet prison camps and were staunchly pro-democratic. Members of Congress eagerly met the men, posing for pictures to send home to
constituents. For many who met them, the pro-democratic, ethnically-inclusive
demeanor of these men dispelled the ideas that Ukraine was antisemitic and
virulently ethno-nationalistic (McConnell 1993). It became more and more
apparent to these members that the pro-Moscow stand of the Bush Administration could not be reconciled with basic American interests in supporting democracy in other countries. It also was apparent that alienating the future
leaders of what potentially could be the second largest country in Europe might
have long-term detrimental effects on European and American national security. Thus, many members of Congress developed their own stand on post-Cold
War Soviet policy that was directly opposed to the Bush position.
The watershed event of this process was Mykhailo Horyn's Washington
visit in September 1990. Gorbachev and Shevardnadze sent communiqués to
Bush, Baker, and Scowcroft, urging them to avoid high-level meetings with
Horyn. Nonetheless, Horyn met with more people, at a higher level (including
four Cabinet members), than had any Ukrainian or Ukrainian-American. He
made "an extraordinary contribution to advancing the cause of an independent
Ukraine" (McConnell 1990). The most important meeting of his trip was his
80-minute meeting with Secretary of Defense, Dick Cheney.12 The Secretary
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found Horyn very "believable," even-measured, truly democratic, and
"unscarred" by his experience in the gulag. After the 1990 meeting, UkrainianAmericans noticed a change in the Department of Defense's (DOD's) position
on Ukraine. The DOD seemed more attentive to the strategic importance of
Ukraine, as well as to matters of financial aid and assistance.13 Thus, DOD's
stand was similar to that of Congress: supporting the pro-democratic movement in Ukraine was the only way to ensure good relations with what could
emerge as the second largest state in Europe.
Visitors from Ukraine who arrived without diaspora assistance did not meet
with Horyn's success. While protesters in Kyiv were demanding his resignation, Ukraine's Foreign Minister, Vitaly Masol', was denied meetings with the
President and Secretary of State in 1990. He refused to meet with the Deputy
Secretary of State. As a result, he had no meetings with U.S. government
officials during his stay.
Ukraine 2000, while an important part of the lobby, was by no means the
only organization active in the third phase. The entire community was mobilized by the events taking place in Ukraine. Ukrainian-Americans who left or
never joined an ethnic group were inspired to use their language skills, their
business and professional connections, and, most importantly, their votes to
help Ukraine achieve independence. Mobilization of the voting community is
essential to influencing Congress. Also essential is rallying disparate organizations under one banner. The Stepan Khmara case achieved both ends. The
Khmara case solidified the lobby-Congress relationship and laid the foundations for the last lobbying effort before the Ukrainian referendum on independence: the concurrent Congressional resolutions urging President Bush to
recognize Ukraine.
The Congress
Even if a foreign policy issue does not require Congressional support—as for
ratifying a treaty or approving an ambassador—the president still recognizes the
danger of acting contrary to the will of the Congress. A president's hesitance to
defy Congress is reinforced in an election year, especially if the ExecutiveLegislative relationship is less than cooperative. This was the case in 1991 and
is the reason why the Senate's passing a Sense of the Senate urging President
Bush to recognize Ukraine following the 1 December 1991 referendum was very
important. This also is the reason why the Ukrainian-American lobby turned its
full attention to lobbying for the resolution.
The 90-percent support for independence in the referendum sounded the
death knell for the Soviet Union. U.S. backing of Ukrainian independence,
even before the referendum, sealed the fate of President Gorbachev. However,
before 28 November 1991, U.S. policy had been to fully support Gorbachev
and the preservation of the Soviet Union. It was not until the manifestation of
35
substantial domestic pressure, displayed by the 20 November 1991 Congressional resolution urging the president to recognize Ukraine, that Bush reversed
his policy.
Why, after decades of seeming indifference to the Ukrainian-American
lobby, did individual members of Congress echo the lobby's letters on the
Senate and House floors as they backed the resolutions against President
Bush's policy? The first part of the answer lies in a shift in the lobby's tactics
for achieving "liberation" at the same time that the Congress was shifting to a
more active role in foreign policy. The lobby's shift gave a human rights
foundation to the same coalition that would get the recognition legislation
passed. Post-Vietnam changes in the Congress included decentralization of
policy making, the increasing role of Congressional staffs in policy decision
making, skepticism toward the executive, creation of the Congressional Research Service (CRS), the rise of the caucuses, and the increase of travel
opportunities for members. This more active Congress required new types of
analysis, which could be supplied by the lobby within the framework of a
human rights emphasis. The second half of the answer lies in the benefit each
member saw in supporting or not supporting the legislation. While the majority
of members preferred to defer to the president, enough members were motivated to support Ukrainian independence—whether for parochial reasons, or
interest in policy14—to pass the legislation and affect policy.
Since Congress founded the Helsinki Commission in 1976, members had
tried to maintain linkage between human rights and foreign policy. Members of
the Agriculture, Trade, Defense, as well as Foreign Affairs or Foreign Relations committees regularly called on members of the Ukrainian National Association, Ukraine 2000, and other ethnic groups to give testimony about what
was happening in the Soviet republic. In addition to giving testimony at hearings, Ukrainian-Americans were full members of the Helsinki Commission.
They joined their congressional colleagues on the Commission as they
"strengthened the spine of the State Department" at Helsinki meetings.
As described above, the one cause that solidified the lobby-Congress partnership was the Khmara case. This "dress rehearsal" put in place the mechanism which would achieve for Senator DeConcini what failed for Senator Jesse
Helms, who attempted to pass similar legislation concerning Baltic recognition. First, it exercised the internal communications processes of the lobby.
While DeConcini's reputation was essential in motivating policy-oriented
senators, lobbying was essential in motivating parochially-motivated members.
Second, the Khmara case helped interested members and the lobby identify the
motivations of each member they would enlist for the recognition legislation.
Third, it raised the general awareness in Congress of the duality of American
foreign policy toward the Soviet Union. In addition to these, the success of
Senate Concurrent Resolution 65 lay, ironically, in the "Chicken Kiev" speech
itself. The speech put Ukrainian independence on the political map during an
election year. This aspect, in combination with the overall executive-legislative
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relationship, would prove essential to swaying members with less than altruistic interest in supporting the legislation.
Generally, critics predicted the failure of Congress and the lobby in Soviet
policy for two primary reasons. The first had to do with the nature of the lobby
itself. The second had to do with what motivates members to respond to a lobby
once the lobby has overcome the basic reasons for failure.
The failure of the Ukrainian-American lobby prior to the independence
resolution has been tied to at least nine aspects of the lobby. The first is the fact
of assimilation, the awareness that ethnics, especially over generations, eventually lose touch with the reality of their homeland. Their attention turns from
political to domestic concerns such as business. For this reason, younger generations left or never joined the "nationalistic" political organizations of their
parents, and forged business and professional communities. Some dropped out
of organized ethnic communities altogether. What critics of this aspect do not
show, however, is that all the "non-political" Ukrainian-American organizations continued to lobby Washington. And, although criticized by the more
traditional organizations, young ethnics decided to "hitch their star" to the
human rights issue while maintaining a "liberation" focus.
Lack of cohesion within the lobby has been given as a second reason for its
failure. Garrett (1986, 31) has argued that an ethnic lobby's success is not tied
solely to its efforts in Washington, but also to its general environment outside
of Washington—the quality of its cohesion as a community. He gives the
singular success story as the American Jewish community. Their strength, he
finds, is in their cohesion and their support by the general, non-Jewish public.
The East European ethnic lobby, he continues, was not able to demonstrate the
same strength and cohesion. The unity displayed in the Khmara case clearly
showed a strengthening and increased cohesion of the lobby.
A third reason was seen as a lack of sympathetic public opinion. It can be
easily argued that the general American public was, and still is, ignorant of the
history and aspirations of the non-Russian formerly Soviet republics. However,
an in-depth understanding of the ethnic platform was not necessary to understand the duality of Bush Soviet policy. The media condemnation of the
"Bloody Sundays" in Riga and Vilnius, and of Bush's "Chicken Kiev" speech
helped to lift this third liability.
Fourth, a problem for lobbyists is always the negative connotations of the
very act they are performing. Hughes (1978) discounted the role of interest
groups on foreign policy because of the negative image most congressmen and
the general public have of lobbying. Ross Perot's 1992 presidential campaign
and subsequent debates over lobbying reform have reemphasized this criticism.
However, the Ukrainian-American lobby's shift to a human rights focus in the
1980s seems to have softened its approach and alleviated any negative connotation of dual allegiance. Furthermore, groups that accurately reflect voter attitudes actually are welcomed more often than they are eschewed.
37
Fifth, the lobby was seen as hampered by its limited scope and inter- and
intra-ethnic rivalry. Joining forces with Congress on human rights proved to be
a boon precisely because it broadened the lobby's scope, uniting it with other
ethnic and non-ethnic interest groups. This eliminated countervailing lobbies.
The Russian ethnic lobby, by its own admission, is not so influential as the
Ukrainian lobby (Deychakiwsky 1993). Rather, the countervailing forces had
been found in the political establishment and among academic specialists.
The limited role of Congress in foreign policy has been given as a sixth
reason. Beside the increased role of Congress in foreign policy noted above,
another mitigation of this liability can be seen if we distinguish congressional
members' long- and short-term policy interests. The human rights issue could
be distinguished as a long-term interest for at least some of its proponents.
Governmental organizations like the Helsinki Commission, and caucuses like
those on human rights and the Baltics and Ukraine, provided platforms for
sustained, long-term interest in foreign policy issues.
A seventh liability was the lobby's small size and electoral insignificance.
The lobby did overcome its small electoral base. Despite a small base, the
intensity of the lobby's commitment and its aspect to decision makers was
disproportionately large. Also, in spite of the assimilation of younger generations, the political goal of independence remained a central part of UkrainianAmerican cultural identity. This sentiment increased after the formation of
Rukh.
Eighth, limited access to decision makers was seen as a stumbling block.
However, access to decision makers had increased by the 1980s. By then, an
ambassador, NSC members, congressmen, an assistant attorney general, and
many other members of the government and bureaucracy were of Ukrainian
heritage, or had spouses who were. The power of these personal contacts in
"working Washington" remained unaddressed in the literature.
Finally, it has been argued that Congressional representatives do not make
"an effective attempt to discover majority opinion in their constituencies," and
that, on foreign policy issues, a member of Congress votes "as he or she feels
best or looks to the administration" (Hughes 1978, 103). This liability can only
be addressed when looking to congressional motivation in foreign policy. The
literature accurately reflects the policy motive of Congress in this effort, but
has ignored the parochial benefits which the Ukrainian-American lobby offered Congress.
Of all the arguments against the lobby's prospects for success, the most
cogent are its electoral insignificance and Congress subsequent disregard for it.
The idea that the lobby would fail due to its size assumed that parochial
motivation and number of votes are synonymous. In fact, small groups often
wield other parochial incentives. What qualities make a lobby "most likely to
succeed?" Lee Hamilton says they must have good internal communication,
know who the decision makers are, and have access at the right time—when
decisions are being made. They also must have good sources of information
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within the executive and legislative branches, and be able to enlist the support
of sympathetic groups (Terchek 1983, 18).
Measuring the Ukrainian-American lobby by this standard, it has the proper
attributes. Although small, it has very strong internal communication. Its access to legislative and executive information and understanding of "how Washington works" was also strong by the mid-1980s. Active enlistment of sympathetic groups such as the Lithuanians, Latvians, Croatians, Poles, and other
groups was pro forma, since they found themselves in the same camp protesting the Bush Administration's policies. Non-ethnic groups, especially human
rights groups, were cultivated during this period as well.
The small size of the lobby may not have been a liability either. Vin Weber
and Tom Downey have offered these attributes for a successful lobby: the most
powerful are the most passionate and those that represent actual votes. "Passionate voters don't forget to vote against you at election time" (Weber and
Downey 1993). The large, PAC-supported lobby is not necessarily the most
powerful.15 Each can give only $5,000 per candidate and usually does not.
According to these former congressmen, the individual constituent who writes,
calls, or asks for an appointment has more influence than the PACs. Interviews
with congressional staffers bear this out. One legislative correspondent gave
this account:
The heavy volume requires a priority system. We receive 1,600 letters per
week and answer every one. The handwritten and passionate letters receive
priority. The computer-generated letters carry a little less weight. If a letter is
signed with the first name only or with a handwritten P.S., it is also given
more attention.
Washington-based lobbies are influential if they accurately reflect voter
attitudes at home. When asked about the negative connotations of lobbyists,
most staffers agreed that lobbyists who represent the voters at home are usually
looked on favorably by members of Congress as providing a service.
Ethnic appeal may have more influence in the House than in the Senate.
Because ethnic groups tend to be concentrated in particular districts, they
usually represent a larger percentage of a constituency for House members than
for Senators. The chances that a countervailing ethnic group may be located in
the same state diminishes the ethnic appeal in the Senate. The more frequent
election cycle in the House reinforces this consideration.
If a congressman finds that a Washington-based lobby does not accurately
represent voter attitudes at home, that lobby quickly loses credibility. The
lobby must mobilize the larger community and sympathetic communities, if
possible. However, not all issues from the homeland unify an entire ethnic
community into an effective lobby. While the overthrow of the democratic
regime in Athens did not mobilize the majority of Greek-Americans, Turkish
military operations in Cyprus, and the subsequent displacement of thousands of
Greeks did (Terchek 1983, 62). A similar pattern is found in the Ukrainian-
39
American community. While the majority remained dormant during the human
rights phase, they were quickly unified by the democratic movement in 1989
and came out against administration policy.
While voter support may overcome a lack of financial resources, the most
important source for any lobbyist's power remains facts. As Boggs wrote:
Forty-three percent of House members have served less than five years.
Newspapers cannot give them the substantive detail they need. Congressional
staffs are over-worked and underpaid. Lobbyists help fill the information
vacuum (Boggs 1993).
The information received from Ukrainian-Americans about the events taking place in the Soviet Union exceeded that from official sources. There are
several reasons for this. First, the State Department and CIA remained Moscow-centric, and maintained only "outposts" in Kyiv, the Baltics, and other
non-Russian republics. One member of a Washington-based human rights
group stated tongue-in-cheek that CIA Director Gates should have used the
Helsinki Commission's intelligence instead of his own sources since the
agency consistently missed the mark (12 January 1993 interview). Second, the
mainstream academic community was ignorant on Ukrainian issues. They did
not know the language, history, or relevant issues. They had marginalized those
in the field of Sovietology who did. Third, the language skills which the
community maintained and the travel opportunities provided by glasnost and
perestroïka gave Ukrainian-Americans renewed access to Ukraine. Fourth,
because they had worked closely with the Helsinki Union in Ukraine on human
rights and the millennial celebration, Ukrainian-Americans had strong communication links with Ukraine by the time the independence movement reached its
peak. (One Washington-based office e-mailed Rukh three times daily, sending
White House press releases and Congressional proceedings, while receiving
updates on democratic and communist movements in Ukraine.) Fifth, the political prisoners of the 1970s and early 1980s, for whom many congressmen
had written letters of petition, became the leaders of the independence movement in 1989. When Drach, Horyn, Chornovil, and others arrived in Washington to join the lobbying effort, congressmen were eager to meet the men behind
the names.
Even a well-organized, passionate lobby with access to decision makers and
all the right facts is successful only if a congressman uses its information in his
or her legislative decision making. It is not feasible to question every congressman on the degree to which she or he does this. It is even less likely that any
would admit such parochial motivation. How, then, can one establish the
likelihood that the ethnic appeal is considered? First, it is important to remember the above-mentioned increase in the congressional role in foreign policy
making. Stockton states that it is increasingly common that congressional
members "address policy issues because they believe doing so is part of their
job" (Stockton 1993, 10). One must then probe the three types of possible
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motivation (deferential, parochial, and policy-based) to gauge the effect of the
ethnic lobby.
In 1991 the executive-legislative relationship was generally confrontational
on a domestic level. In foreign policy it was shifting from cooperation and
deference (e.g., at the onset of the Gulf War) to confrontation. To members of
Congress, the issue of Ukrainian independence was unlike the Gulf War and
other foreign policy matters because of its roots in human rights. Whereas
many argue that the executive takes the lead in foreign policy formulation—
with the Congress relegated to micromanaging it once it is formed—Congress
has tended to take the lead in human rights issues. This dates to the signing of
the Helsinki Final Act in 1975, and the formation of the Fascell/Helsinki
Commission in 1976. The Jackson-Vanik Amendment serves as a prime example of Congressional initiative in checking State Department policy.
In addition to the already confrontational nature of the independence issue,
Congress as a whole, and therefore its members, had much to gain from
opposing Bush's Soviet policy. First, Bush was vulnerable to partisan politics
in an election year. Second, because of the House Post Office scandal, the
Clarence Thomas hearings, and other internal problems, the Congress was the
least loved public institution in several 1991 public opinion polls. A wounded
Congress needed some public victories. Third, public awareness of
Gorbachev's Baltic crackdown made opposition to Bush's Gorbachev-centered
policy a potential boon. An example of this is then-Governor Clinton—advised
by Ukrainian-American Democrats—attacking Bush for "Chicken Kiev" in the
Northeast and Mid-West. Thus, any motivation to defer to the president may
have been outweighed by the political gains in opposing him, which implies the
possibility of a parochial motive on either the congressional or individual
levels. Actually, in the final analysis both parochial and policy motivations
were evident in the case of supporting Ukrainian independence.
While all representatives contacted named "doing the right thing" as their
primary motivation in sponsoring or co-sponsoring Senate Concurrent Resolution 65, ethnic lobbyists said they tailored their approach to each representative
depending on perceived motivation. Some, the lobbyists said, backed their
interests without pressure, while less sympathetic members required more
pressure. The intertwined nature of parochial and policy motivation is illustrated by what one foreign policy legislative assistant said about his boss'
motivation: "When he was a freshman, he joined the Caucuses and Committees
because of constituency interests. Now that he has learned more about the
issues, he'd vote for the legislation even if he weren't lobbied" (telephone
interview 3 March 1993). A further illustration is provided by Senator
DeConcini and (now former) Senator Alfonse D'Amato of New York, both of
whom topped the lobbyists' list of their supporters. DeConcini's home state of
Arizona comprises only 4.37 percent East European ethnics, while New York
has 14.35 percent East European ethnics. Both shared experiences on the
Helsinki Commission, and both acted while being senior senators with "safe"
41
seats. For both it proved impossible to distinguish genuine policy-based motivation from parochial interests, but, similarly, neither needed to be ruled out.
How strong a parochial interest could there have been? As described above,
many compared Thornburgh's loss to Wofford (with the Republican loss of the
18.31 percent East European constituency in Pennsylvania) to President Ford's
loss of the large Polish-American vote in 1976. The spin conveyed to Congress
by the ethnic lobby for the Republican defeat was foreign policy protest. Thus,
it could be argued that even a member with no substantive knowledge of the
independence issue could have been motivated parochially by the election
results. The size of the East European ethnic vote exceeds ten percent in only
twelve states. If the lobby were to rely solely on voter incentive, it would fail to
win the seats necessary to pass the resolution. It did achieve a winning coalition, however, and the reason is that the issue invited a combination of incentives, including the electoral benefits provided by advertising, credit claiming,
and position taking on a publicly salient issue (cf. Mayhew 1974, 32).
To reinforce the argument that the lobby's impact was greater than its voting
numbers would indicate, a perusal of the list of resolution supporters shows
that only fifteen of the 24 senators from states with an East European constituency greater than 10% supported the legislation. The remaining nine senators
from these states, while lobbied, were not positively influenced by the lobbying
effort. The possible reasons for the failure may include a perceived lack of
parochial benefits or simple fundamental disagreement over policy. The House
is harder to assess. Fifty-six of the sponsors had an ethnic constituency, while
the remaining 26 did not. This ratio is higher than in the Senate, where the split
was 14 to 13. As previously mentioned, the reason for the higher ratio may be
that ethnic populations are usually concentrated in certain districts.
Thus, the relationship of constituency-to-vote for the bill is closer in the
House than in the Senate, where policy motivation seemed greater. Safe seats
in the Senate tended to vote for or against the measure regardless of constituency size. It appears the requirement of a large voting population, for either
house, was not required. It is apparent that the small size of the UkrainianAmerican population did not hurt it on the floor. Thus, supporting Ukrainian
independence against the administration provided congressmen the opportunity
to do the right thing and receive electoral benefits as well. A lobby which
brought the issue back to the larger public made these policy benefits possible.
Conclusions
That such a small ethnic group could reverse American foreign policy is
extraordinary. Its success relied upon two facts. First, it possessed superior
insight into Soviet reality than the experts in the intelligence, foreign policy, and
academic fields. Second, its perceived power was much greater than its actual
numbers. This was augmented by its strategic location in important electoral
42
FINK
districts and their being lumped together with other Eastern European ethnics.
Furthermore, history was on their side: the dualistic policies of American
presidents toward the Captive Nations were exposed in a crucial election year.
The concept of Captive Nations Week also made possible the evolution of the
lobby—an evolution that likewise was crucial to its success. The Captive Nations Week idea laid the foundations for the human rights phase of the lobby and
for the recognition push in 1991. Many inside and outside of the lobby have
discounted its importance, but the Captive Nations Week concept's impact on
U.S.-Soviet relations must not be confused with widespread U.S. domestic ignorance of the concept. In the end, Captive Nations Week was important because:
1) U.S. decision makers understood it (and disagreed with it), even if the majority of Congress did not; 2) Soviet political elites understood it and abhorred it; 3)
administrations were powerless to completely abandon the observance, because
it was established in law; and, 4) it established a relationship between the lobby
and Congress that gave the Congress a gauge by which to measure an
administration's adherence—or lack thereof—to the resolution of the nationalities question in foreign policy toward the Soviet Union. The law ensured that an
administration make Congress and the lobby permanent considerations (admittedly, of varying degrees) in the making of this foreign policy.
Like the immediate postwar generation, the lobby of the 1970s and the
1980s adapted to political realities of the period. The increasing emphasis on
ethnicity and human rights in the 1970s contributed to the second phase of the
lobby. This "shift" to human rights changed the character of the lobby for two
reasons: 1) it allowed it to keep liberation on the political agenda while using
the politically cogent language of human rights; and, 2) it made the lobby more
difficult to detect as a lobby, because its members made use not only of ethnic
organizations, but also NGOs, their own positions within the government, and
their positions on congressional staffs.
Rukh support groups marked the final phase of the lobby. Founded on the
Captive Nations Week concept, they used the political ties made during the
human rights phase along with establishing new ones. Their efforts built upon
the Congressional Commission on the Famine in Ukraine, the millennial celebrations (of Christianity in Rus'-Ukraine), famine commemoration legislation,
and finally, Rukh support and recognition.
The meeting with President Bush was the culmination of all these efforts.
First, it showed that the administration recognized the lobby as a consideration
in policy making. Second, coming on the heels of Senate Concurrent Resolution 65, it indicated the Congress-lobby solidarity against the Bush stand
towards Ukrainian independence. Finally, the meeting brought together members of otherwise fractious components of the lobby under one banner—diplomatic recognition.
This was the beginning of a period of closer relations between Ukraine and
the United States that were increasingly positive after 1994 and have culmi-
43
nated in a high point with American championing of the special Ukraine16
NATO Charter in July 1997.
NOTES
1.
The 1990 census reports 740,803 Ukrainian-Americans. One hundred
thousand of these are members of Ukrainian-American Organizations.
See Appendix В.
2.
Kennan (1993) recommends that the U.S. form a non-political foreign
policy council of elders.
3.
Only a marginal group of Soviet specialists held that the
multicultural nature of the USSR was important. For arguments that
ethnopolitics was the key weakness of the USSR (that were made before
its collapse) see works of Walker Connor, Robert Conquest, Teresa
Rakowska-Harmstone, Roman Szporluk, and Hugh Seton-Watson. Since
the collapse, numerous works have appeared on this topic.
4.
The contradictory policies of liberation and containment, from the
Truman to Bush administrations, are examined in Kovrig (1991).
5.
For a survey of the reasons why the ethnic lobby was considered ineffective in the past, see Cohen (1973), Horowitz (1977), and Garret (1986).
6.
Little is known about the number of ethnic groups supporting the Democratic and Republican parties during this period.
7.
For a study of the third wave of immigrants, see Isajiw, et al. (1992).
8.
The lobby was not unique. Using this huge, uncontrolled computer
billboard—which was created by the military during the Cold War—
Iranians, Iraqis, and Americans communicated with each other during the
Gulf War. Not only has this technology levelled the playing field, but it
also has tipped the scales of real-time information to its users. Because of
this, the Nixon-Kissinger-style of foreign policymaking, exclusively "at
the highest levels," may have been altered, if not made impossible.
9.
The first Ukrainian (or, more correctly, "Ruthenian" given the time that
he arrived) to come to America was Ivan Bohdan, who arrived with
Captain John Smith at Jamestown in 1608.
10.
One example is the U.S.-Ukraine Foundation, an organization promoting
democracy and a market economy in Ukraine. In the U.S., the foundation
hosts Ukrainian deputies and delegations. In Kyiv, it helps deputies by
providing resources for the making of public policy.
11.
Rukh, literally 'Movement,' was the common name for the Democratic
Movement for the Restructuring of Ukraine, a political union founded in
September, 1989.
44
FINK
12.
Among others with whom Horyn met were: David Atwood, President,
National Democratic Institute; Richard Thornburgh, Attorney General;
Carl Gershman, Chairman of the National Endowment for Democracy;
Senators Richard Lugar, Dennis DeConcini, Bill Bradley; Congressman
Frank Wolf; William Kristol, Chief of Staff, Office of the Vice President
and Jon Glasman, Assistant to the Vice President and Deputy to the Vice
President for National Security Affairs; Jeane Kirkpatrick, Michael
Novak, and other resident scholars at the American Enterprise Institute;
Paula Dobriansky, Deputy Assistant Secretary of State, Bureau of Human rights and Humanitarian Affairs; Curtis Kamman, Deputy Assistant
Secretary of State for the Office of Eastern European and Yugoslav
affairs; Lane Kirkland, President, AFL-CIO; Bruce Gelb, Director, U.S.
Information Agency; Dr. Zbigniew Brzeziński, National Security Advisor to President Carter; and members of the press, including the Christian
Science Monitor and Radio Liberty.
13.
See, for example, Schadlow 1998.
14.
Lindsay 1991 proposed three types of congressional motivation: deference, parochial, and policy. Deference refers to a motivation to follow (or
avoid confrontation with) the lead of the executive branch on a specific
issue. The parochial motivation assumes that Congress avoids the substance of policy, and votes on what electoral benefits it
can receive. The policy motivation assumes that congressmen really
care about specific issues and want to shape the common good.
15.
Professional labor and business lobbyists that I interviewed agreed that
the emotional message can overcome even the most amateur, unrefined
lobbying technique.
16.
For good retrospectives for the period following the one covered in this
paper, see Hajda, ed., 1998 (especially Garnett, Larrabee, and Schadlow
therein) as well as Shcherbak 1998, and Garnett 1997.
45
APPENDIX A. 1980 AND 1990 CENSUS DATA ON
UKRAINIAN-AMERICANS
Data is presented state by state. Percent increase or decrease between 1980
and 1990 also is represented.
1980 Census
1990 Census Percent Increase
(Decrease)
UNITED STATES
730,056
740,803
Alabama
Alaska
Arizona
Arkansas
California
Colorado
Connecticut
Delaware
District of Columbia
Florida
Georgia
Hawaii
Idaho
Illinois
Indiana
Iowa
Kansas
Kentucky
Louisiana
Maine
Maryland
Massachusetts
Michigan
Minnesota
Mississippi
Missouri
Montana
Nebraska
Nevada
New Hampshire
New Jersey
New Mexico
New York
North Carolina
1,218
446
5,447
570
49,724
5,065
25,229
4,394
1,108
25,227
2,680
926
641
40,987
6,779
1,155
1,651
1,410
1,616
921
13,975
17,102
47,189
9,522
643
4,649
1,453
1,323
1,889
2,078
80,751
1,035
127,678
2,766
1,585
962
8,471
870
56,211
6,984
23,711
4,950
1,082
33,792
4,967
1,234
906
38,414
6,379
1,356
2,075
1,582
1,391
1,328
15,872
17,500
43,914
10,691
480
4,766
1,478
1,161
2,434
2,434
73,935
1,512
121,113
4,897
1.5
30.1
115.7
55.5
52.6
13.0
37.9
(6.0)
12.7
(2.3)
34.0
85.3
33.3
41.3
(6.3)
(5.9)
17.4
25.9
12.2
(13.9)
44.2
13.6
2.3
(6.9)
12.3
(25.3)
2.5
1.7
(12.2)
28.9
17.1
(8.4)
46.1
(5.1)
77.0
46
FINK
North Dakota
Ohio
Oklahoma
Oregon
Pennsylvania
Rhode Island
South Carolina
South Dakota
Tennessee
Texas
Utah
Vermont
Virginia
Washington
West Virginia
Wisconsin
Wyoming
3,212
45,820
1,497
4,092
143,862
3,585
1,560
3,634
43,569
1,969
6,220
129,753
3,530
2,266
208
391
1,913
8,636
2,063
13,094
1,062
762
848
978
8,048
7,885
1,970
6,585
12,321
10,814
1,514
6,783
326
405
13.1
(4.9)
31.5
52.0
(9.8)
(1.5)
45.3
88.0
7.8
51.6
39.4
15.3
53.1
37.1
(23.1)
3.0
24.2
[Figures compiled by the Washington Office of the Ukrainian National Association, Inc.]
APPENDIX B. PRESIDENT BUSH'S REMARKS TO THE SUPREME
SOVIET OF UKRAINE IN KYIV, SOVIET UNION
This speech, dubbed "Chicken Kiev" in the American press, was delivered
on 1 August 1991:
Well, first, thank all of you for that warm welcome. And may I take this
opportunity to thank all people of Ukraine that gave such a warm welcome, such
a heartfelt greeting. Every American in that long motorcade—and believe me, it
was long—was moved and touched by the warmth of the welcome of Ukraine.
We'll never forget it.
Chairman Kravchuk, thank you, sir. And to the Deputies of the Soviet,
Supreme Soviet, may I salute you. Members of the clergy that are here,
members of the diplomatic corps, representatives of American pharmaceutical
and health care corporations who I understand are with us today, and distinguished guests all, Barbara and I are delighted to be here—very, very happy.
We have only one regret, and that is that I've got to get home on Thursday
night—I can still make it. And the reason is, our Congress goes out tomorrow,
finishes their session they're in now, and I felt it was important to be there on
that last day of the final session.
47
This beautifuly city brings to mind the words of the poet Alexander
Dovzhenko: "The city of Kyiv is an orchard. Kyiv is a poet. Kyiv is an epic. Kyiv
is history. Kyiv is art."
Centuries ago, your forebears named this country Ukraine, or "frontier,"
because your steppes link Europe and Asia. But Ukrainians have become
frontiersmen of another sort. Today you explore the frontiers and contours of
liberty.
Though my stay here is, as I said, far too short, I have come here to talk with
you and to learn. For those who love freedom, every experiment in building an
open society offers new lessons and insights. You face an especially daunting
task. For years, people in this nation felt powerless, overshadowed by a vast
government apparatus, cramped by forces that attempted to control every aspect
of their lives.
Today, your people probe the promise of freedom. In cities and Republics, on
farms, in businesses, around university campuses, you debate the fundamental
questions of liberty, self-rule, and free enterprise. Americans, you see, have a
deep commitment to these values. We follow your progress with a sense of
fascination, excitement, and hope. This alone is historic. In the past, our nations
engaged in duels of eloquent bluff and bravado. Now, the fireworks of superpower confrontation are giving way to the quieter and far more hopeful art of
cooperation.
I come here to tell you: We support the straggle in this great country for
democracy and economic reform. And I would like to talk to you today about
how the United States views this complex and exciting period in your history,
how we intend to relate to the Soviet central Government and the Republican
governments.
In Moscow, I outlined our approach: We will support those in the center and
the Republics who pursue freedom, democracy, and economic liberty. We will
determine our support on the basis of principles. We cannot tell you how to
reform your society. We will not try to pick winners and losers in political
competitions between Republics or between Republics and the center. That is
your business; that's not the business of the United States of America.
Do not doubt our real commitment, however, to reform. But do not think we
can presume to solve your problems for you. Theodore Roosevelt, one of our
great Presidents, once wrote: To be patronized is as offensive as to be insulted.
No one of us cares permanently to have someone else conscientiously striving to
do him good; what we want is to work with that someone else for the good of both
of us. That's what our former President said. We will work for the good of both
of us, which means that we will not meddle in your internal affairs.
Some people have urged the United States to choose between supporting
President Gorbachev and supporting independence-minded leaders throughout
the U.S.S.R. I consider this a false choice. In fairness, President Gorbachev has
achieved astonishing things, and his policies of glasnost, perestroïka, and
48
FINK
democratization point toward the goals of freedom, democracy, and economic
liberty.
We will maintain the strongest possible relationship with the Soviet Government of President Gorbachev. But we also appreciate the new realities of life in
the U.S.S.R. And therefore, as a federation ourselves, we want good relations—
improved relations—with the Republics. So, let me build upon my comments in
Moscow by describing in more detail what Americans mean when we talk about
freedom, democracy, and economic liberty.
No terms have been abused more regularly, nor more cynically than these.
Throughout this century despots have masqueraded as democrats, jailers have
posed as liberators. We can restore faith in government only by restoring
meaning to these concepts.
I don't want to sound like I'm lecturing, but let's begin with the broad concept
"freedom." When Americans talk of freedom, we refer to people's abilities to
live without fear of government intrusion, without fear of harassment by thenfellow citizens, without restricting others' freedoms. We do not consider freedom a privilege, to be doled out only to those who hold proper political views or
belong to certain groups. We consider it an inanlienable right, bestowed upon all
men and women. Lord Acton once observed: The most certain test by which we
judge whether a country is really free is the amount of security enjoyed by its
minorities.
Freedom requires tolerance, a concept embedded in openness, in glasnost,
and in our first amendment protections for the freedoms of speech, association,
and religion—all religions.
Tolerance nourishes hope. A priest wrote of glasnost: Today, more than ever
the words of Paul the Apostle, spoken 2,000 years ago, ring out: They counted us
among the dead, but look, we are alive. In Ukraine, in Russia, in Armenia, and the
Baltics, the spirit of liberty thrives.
But freedom cannot survive if we let despots flourish or permit seemingly
minor restrictions to multiply until they form chains, until they form shackles.
Later today, I'll visit the monument at Babi Yar—a somber reminder, a solemn
reminder, of what happens when people fail to hold back the horrible tide of
intolerance and tyranny.
Yet freedom is not the same as independence. Americans will not support
those who seek independence in order to replace a far-off tyranny with a local
despotism. They will not aid those who promote a suicidal nationalism based
upon ethnic hatred.
We will support those who want to build democracy. By democracy, we mean
a system of government in which people may vie openly for the hearts—and yes,
the votes—of the public. We mean a system of government that derives its just
power from the consent of the governed, that retains its legitimacy by controlling
its appetite for power. For years, you had elections with ballots, but you did not
enjoy democracy. And now, democracy has begun to set firm roots in Soviet soil.
49
The key to success lies in understanding government's proper role and its
limits. Democracy is not a technical process driven by dry statistics. It is the very
human enterprise of preserving freedom, so that we can do the important things,
the really important things: raise families, explore our own creativity, build good
and fruitful lives.
In modern societies, freedom and democracy rely on economic liberty. A free
economy is nothing more than a system of communication. It simply cannot
function without individual rights or a profit motive, which give people an
incentive to go to work, an incentive to produce.
And it certainly cannot function without the rule of law, without fair and
enforceable contracts, without laws that protect property rights and punish fraud.
Free economies depend upon freedom of expression, the ability of people to
exchange ideas and test out new theories. The Soviet Union weakened itself for
years by restricting the flow of information, by outlawing devices crucial to
modern communications, such as computers and copying machines. And when
you restricted free movement—even tourist travel—you prevented your own
people from making the most of their talent. You cannot innovate if you cannot
communicate.
And finally, a free economy demands engagement in the economic mainstream. Adam Smith noted two centuries ago, trade enriches all who engage in it.
Isolation and protectionism doom its practitioners to degradation and want.
I note this today because some Soviet cities, regions, and even Republics have
engaged in ruinous trade wars. The Republics of this nation have extensive bonds
of trade, which no one can repeal with the stroke of a pen or the passage of a law.
The vast majority of trade conducted by Soviet companies—imports and exports—involves, as you know better than I, trade between Republics. The nineplus-one agreement holds forth the hope that Republics will combine greater
autonomy with greater voluntary interaction—political, social, cultural, economic—rather than pursuing the hopeless course of isolation.
And so, American investors and businessmen look forward to doing business
in the Soviet Union, including in the Ukraine. We've signed agreements this
week that will encourage further interaction between the U.S. and all levels of the
Soviet Union. But ultimately, our trade relations will depend upon our ability to
develop a common language, a common language of commerce—currencies that
communicate with one another, laws that protect innovators and entrepreneurs,
bonds of understanding and trust.
It should be obvious that the ties between our nations grow stronger every
single day. I set forth a Presidential initiative that is providing badly needed
medical aid to the Soviet Union. And this aid expresses Americans' solidarity
with the Soviet peoples during a time of hardship and suffering. And it has
supplied facilities in Kyiv that are treating victims of Chernobyl. You should
know that America's heart—the hearts of all—went out to the people here at the
time of Chernobyl.
50
FINK
We have sent teams to help you improve upon the safety of Ukrainian nuclear
plants and coal mines. We've also increased the number of cultural exchanges
with the Republics, including more extensive legal, academic, and cultural
exchanges between America and Ukraine.
We understand that you cannot reform your system overnight. America's first
system of government—the Continental Congress—failed because the States
were too suspicious of one another and the central government too weak to
protect commerce and individual rights. In 200 years, we have learned that
freedom, democracy, and economic liberty are more than terms of inspiration.
They're more than words. They are challenges.
Your great poet Shevchenko noted: Only in your own house can you have
your truth, your strength, and freedom. No society ever achieves perfect democracy, liberty, or enterprise; if it makes full use of its people's virtues and abilities,
it can use these goals as guides to a better life.
And now, as Soviet citizens try to forge a new social compact, you have the
obligation to restore power to citizens demoralized by decades of totalitarian
rule. You have to give them hope, inspiration, determination—by showing your
faith in their abilities. Societies that don't trust themselves or their people cannot
provide freedom. They can guarantee only the bleak tyranny of suspicion,
avarice, and poverty.
An old Ukrainian proverb says: When you enter a great enterprise, free your
soul from weakness. The peoples of the U.S.S.R. have entered a great enterprise,
full of courage and vigor. I have come here today to say: We support those who
explore the frontiers of freedom. We will joint these reformers on the path to
what we call—appropriately call a new world order.
You're leaders. You are the participants in the political process. And I go
home to an active political process. So, if you saw me waving like mad from my
limousine, it was in the thought that maybe some of those people along the line
were people from Philadelphia or Pittsburgh or Detroit where so many Ukrainian-Americans live, where so many Ukrainian-Americans are with me in the
remarks I've made here today.
This has been a great experience for Barbara and me to be here. We salute you.
We salute the changes that we see. I remember the French expression, vive la
difference, and I see different churnings around the Chamber, and that is exactly
the way it ought to be. One guy wants this and another one that. That's the way
the process works when you're open and free—competing with ideas to see who
is going to emerge correct and who can do the most for the people in Ukraine.
And so, for us this has been a wonderful trip, albeit too short. And may I
simply say, may God bless the people of Ukraine. Thank you very, very much.
51
APPENDIX С U.S. EAST EUROPEAN ETHNIC POPULATION
This table gives 1980 and 1990 census data on Eastern European ethnic
groups. It indicates change in each population.
Ethnic Group
1980
1990
Change
ιPercent Increase
(Decrease)
Albanian
Armenian
Belarusian
Bulgarian
Croatian
Czech
Czechoslovakia
East European
Estonian
German Russian
Hungarian
Latvian
Lithuanian
Macedonian
Polish
Rom
Romanian
Russian
Ruthenian*
Serbian
Slavic
Slovak
Slovene
Soviet Union
Ukrainian
Yugoslav
Others
38,658
212,621
7,381
42,504
252,970
1,892,456
n/r
62,404
25,994
n/r
1,776,902
92,141
742,776
n/r
8,228,037
n/r
315,258
2,781,432
8,485
100,941
172,696
776,806
126,463
n/r
730,056
360,174
77,762
47,710
308,096
n/r
29,595
544,270
1,300,192
315,285
n/r
26,762
10,153
1,582,302
100,331
811,865
20,365
9,366,106
5,693
365,544
2,952,987
7,602
116,795
76,931
1,882,897
124,437
7,729
740,803
257,994
259,585
9,052
95,475
(7,381)
(12,909)
291,300
(592,264)
315,285
(62,404)
768
10,153
(194,600)
8,190
69,089
20,365
1,138,069
5,693
50,286
171,555
(883)
15,854
(95,765)
1,106,091
(2,026)
7,729
10,747
(102,180)
181,823
23.42
44.90
n/a
(30.37)
115.15
(31.30)
n/a
n/a
2.95
n/a
(10.95)
8.89
9.30
n/a
13.80
n/a
15.95
6.17
(10.41)
15.71
(55.45)
142.39
(1.60)
n/a
1.47
(28.37)
(233.82)
Total
18,824,917
21,262,029
2,437,112
12.95
n/r—Not reported in this census.
n/a—Not applicable.
*Listed as Carpathian Russians in 1990 census.
[Compiled by the Washington Offices of the Ukrainian National Association, Inc.]
52
FINK
APPENDIX D. U.S. EAST EUROPEAN ETHNIC POPULATION
This table lists East European ethnic groups by state, indicating population
as percentage of the total state population. States in which East European
ethnic groups are greater than ten percent of the total population are italicized.
East European
Ethnic Population
UNITED STATES
Alabama
Alaska
Arizona
Arkansas
California
Colorado
Connecticut
Delaware
District of Columbia
Florida
Georgia
Hawaii
Idaho
Illinois
Indiana
Iowa
Kansas
Kentucky
Louisiana
Maine
Maryland
Massachusetts
Michigan
Minnesota
Mississippi
Missouri
Montana
Nebraska
Nevada
New Hampshire
New Jersey
New Mexico
New York
North Carolina
North Dakota
Percent of Total
Population
21,262,029
8.55
53,940
33,344
160,376
39,906
1,931,758
236,190
605,527
66,743
35,691
1,040,481
168,448
30,565
33,884
1,767,634
367,722
136,800
109,420
56,729
60,793
51,999
459,986
699,473
1,419,636
478,348
29,298
228,215
52,251
194,773
84,402
87,338
1,368,364
52,507
2,582,440
140,966
63,393
1.33
6.06
4.37
1.70
6.49
7.17
18.42
10.02
5.88
8.04
2.60
2.76
3.37
15.46
6.63
4.93
4.42
1.54
1.44
4.23
9.62
11.63
15.27
10.93
1.14
4.46
6.54
12.34
7.02
7.87
17.70
3.47
14.35
2.13
9.92
Ohio
Oklahoma
Oregon
Pennsylvania
Rhode Island
South Carolina
South Dakota
Tennessee
Texas
Utah
Vermont
Virginia
Washington
West Virginia
Wisconsin
Wyoming
1,362,059
76,609
153,808
2,175,477
84,944
68,116
42,481
84,092
644,826
42,985
35,960
291,931
275,921
71,947
803,721
25,764
53
12.56
2.44
5.41
18.31
8.47
1.95
6.10
1.72
3.80
2.49
6.39
4.72
5.67
4.01
16.43
5.68
[Figures compiled by the Washington Office of the Ukrainian National Association, Inc.]
APPENDIX E. SPONSORS AND CO-SPONSORS OF HOUSE AND
SENATE RESOLUTIONS ON UKRAINIAN INDEPENDENCE
This list shows the senators and representatives who sponsored (first two
names listed) and co-sponsored (all other names) Sen.Con.Res.65 and
H.Con.Res.212. The Senate resolution was passed on 20 November 1991.
S.Con.Res.65
DeConcini, Dennis
D'Amato, Alfonse M.
Arizona
New York
Adams, Brock
Bradley, Bill
Dodd, Christopher J.
Glenn, John
Graham, Bob
Hatch, Orrin G.
Helms, Jesse
Inouye, Daniel K.
Kasten, Robert W.
Kerry, John F.
Lautenberg, Frank R.
Lieberman, Joe
Mack, Connie
McCain, John
Washington
New Jersey
Connecticut
Ohio
Florida
Utah
North Carolina
Hawaii
Wisconsin
Massachusetts
New Jersey
Connecticut
Florida
Arizona
ΠΝΚ
54
Metzenbaum, Howard M.
Mikulski, Barbara A.
Moynihan, Daniel P.
Pressler, Larry
Riegle, Donald W.
Seymour, John
Shelby, Richard С
Simon, Paul
Specter, Arlen
Wallop, Malcolm
Wofford, Harris L.
Ohio
Maryland
New York
South Dakota
Michigan
California
Alabama
Dlinois
Pennsylvania
Wyoming
Pennsylvania
H.Con .Res.212
Ritter, Don
Hertel, Dennis M.
Pennsylvania
Michigan
Annunzio, Frank
Bonior, David E.
Broomfield, William S.
Burton, Dan
Camp, Dave
Campbell, Tom
Cardin, Benjamin L.
Conyers, John
Cox, C. Christopher
Coyne, William J.
Cunningham, Randy
Dannemeyer, William E.
DeLauro, Rosa
Dingell, John D.
Donnelly, Brian
Dornan, Robert K.
Dwyer, Bernard J.
Eckart, Dennis E.
Fawell, Harris W.
Feighan, Edward F.
Ford, William D.
Frank, Barney
Gallegly,Elton
Gallo, Dean A.
Gilman, Benjamin A.
Green, William
Guarini, Frank J.
Horton, Frank
Houghton, Amory
Hughes, William J.
Hunter, Duncan L.
Jacobs, Andrew
Illinois
Michigan
Michigan
Indiana
Michigan
California
Maryland
Michigan
California
Pennsylvania
California
California
Connecticut
Michigan
Massachusetts
California
New Jersey
Ohio
Illinois
Ohio
Michigan
Massachusetts
California
New Jersey
New York
New York
New Jersey
New York
New York
New Jersey
California
Indiana
Jefferson, William J.
Kennelly, Barbara B.
Kildee, Dale E.
Kolter, Joseph
Kostmayer, Peter H.
Kyi, Jon
LaFalce, John J.
Lantos, Tom
Levin, Sander M.
Irvine, Mel
Lipinski, William O.
Machtley, Ronald K.
Marlenee, Ron
Martinez, Matthew G.
Mavroules, Nicholas
McGrath, Raymond J.
McHugh, Matthew F.
McNulty, Michael R.
Moorhead, Carlos J.
Morella, Constance A.
Murphy, Austin
Murtha, John P.
Neal, Richard E.
Nowak, Henry J.
Oakar, Mary Rose
Pallone, Frank
Paxon, William
Peterson, Douglas "Pete"
Pursell, Carl D.
Quillen, James H.
Ramstad, Jim
Richardson, William
Rinaldo, Matthew J.
Roe, Robert A.
Rohrabacher, Dana
Santorum, Richard John
Schaefer, Dan
Shays, Christopher
Slattery, James
Slaughter, Louise M.
Smith, Christopher H.
Solomon, Gerald B.
Traficant, James A.
Walsh, James T.
Weber, Vin
Wolf, Frank R.
Zeliff, Bill
Louisiana
Connecticut
Michigan
Pennsylvania
Pennsylvania
Arizona
New York
California
Michigan
California
Illinois
Rhode Island
Montana
California
Massachusetts
New York
New York
New York
California
Maryland
Pennsylvania
Pennsylvania
Massachusetts
New York
Ohio
New Jersey
New York
Florida
Michigan
Tennessee
Minnesota
New Mexico
New Jersey
New Jersey
California
Pennsylvania
Colorado
Connecticut
Kansas
New York
New Jersey
New York
Ohio
New York
Minnesota
Virginia
New Hampshire
55
56
FINK
APPENDIX F. CAPTIVE NATIONS WEEK RESOLUTION
This resolution, signed into Public Law 86-90 on 9 July 1959, was written
by the Honorable Lev E. Dobriansky. It provided the foundation of the
Captive Nations concept upon which the Ukrainian-American lobby
founded its cause:
Whereas the greatness of the United States is in large part attributable to its
having been able, through the democratic process, to achieve a harmonious
national unity of its people, even though they stem from the most diverse of
racial, religious and ethnic backgrounds; and
Whereas this harmonious unification of the diverse elements of our free society
has led the people of the United States to possess a warm understanding and
sympathy for the aspirations of people everywhere and to recognize the natural
interdependency of the peoples and nations of the world; and
Whereas the enslavement of a substantial part of the world's population by
Communist imperialism makes a mockery of the idea of peaceful coexistence
between nations and constitutes a detriment to the natural bonds of understanding
between the people of the United States and other peoples; and
Whereas since 1918 the imperialistic and aggressive policies of Russian
communism have resulted in the creation of a vast empire which poses a dire
threat to security of the United States and of all the free peoples of the world; and
Whereas the imperialistic policies of Communist Russia have led through direct
and indirect aggression, to the subjugation of the national independence of Poland,
Hungary, Lithuania, Ukraine, Czechoslovakia, Latvia, Estonia, White Ruthenia,
Rumania, East Germany, Bulgaria, mainland China, Armenia, Azerbaijan,
Georgia, North Korea, Albania, Idel-Ural, Tibet, Cossackia, Turkestan, North
Vietnam, and others; and
Whereas those submerged nations look to the United States, as the citadel of
human freedom, for leadership in bringing about their liberation and independence
an in restoring to them the enjoyment of their Christian, Jewish, Moslem, Buddhist,
or other religious freedoms, and of their individual liberties; and
Whereas it is vital to the national security of the United States that the desire for
liberty and independence on the part of the peoples of these conquered nations
should be steadfastly kept alive; and
Whereas the desire for liberty and independence by the overwhelming majority
of the people of these submerged nations constitute a powerful deterrent to war
57
and one of the best hopes for a just and lasting peace; and
Whereas it isfittingthat we clearly manifest to such people through an appropriate
and official means the historic fact that the people of the United States share with
them their aspirations for the recovery of their freedom and independence; Now,
therefore, be it
Resolved by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of
America in Congress Assembled, That the President of the United States is
authorized and requested to issue a proclamation designating the third week in
July 1959 as "Captive Nations Week" and inviting the people of the United
States to observe such week with appropriate ceremonies and activities. The
President is further authorized and requested to issue a similar proclamation
each year until such time as freedom and independence shall have been achieved
for all the captive nations of the world.
APPENDIX G. CAPTIVE NATIONS LIST
The list of "captive," or "oppressed," nations dates back to 1920. Additions
were made until 1979.
Armenia
Azerbaijan
Belarus
Cossackia
Georgia
Idel-Ural
North Caucasia
Ukraine
Far Eastern Rep.
Turkestan
Mongolia
Estonia
Latvia
Lithuania
Albania
Bulgaria
Yugoslavia
Poland
1920
1920
1920
1920
1920
1920
1920
1920
1920
1920
1920
1946
1946
1946
1946
1946
1946
1947
Romania
Czecho-Slovakia
North Korea
Hungary
East Germany
Mainland China
Tibet
North Vietnam
Cuba
South Vietnam
Cambodia
Laos
Angola
Mozambique
Ethiopia
Afghanistan
Nicaragua
1948
1948
1948
1949
1949
1949
1951
1954
1960
1974
1975
1975
1975
1975
1977
1978
1979
58
FINK
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From
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JJ
The Coming of "Chrysler Imperial":
Ukrainian Youth and Rituals of Resistance*
ALEXANDRA HRYCAK
Students and young professionals played a role of unparalleled importance in
glasnost-em national mobilization in Ukraine.1 They led each new stage of
political activism during that period, from the establishment of Ukraine's first
"informal associations" to the organization of the Rukh inaugural congress and
such subsequent protests as the human chain joining L'viv and Kyiv, the draft
resistance movement, and the student hunger strike that finally brought down
the republic's prime minister. Indeed, they were the first group to help mobilize
public support for the opposition movement at a time when the Soviet Ukrainian government had successfully used violence and threats to keep participation in public protests low. What motivated this group's support for Ukraine's
independence from the Soviet Union? Below, I examine a festival that I will
use to demonstrate and account for a particularly effective strategy used to help
mobilize young protestors' support during glasnost: the inversion of familiar
official Soviet youth rituals.
The subject of glasnost-ета. public protest is vital for understanding the two
types of Ukrainian nationalism that have arisen since independence. One took a
form that opponents of nationalism both in Ukraine and abroad recognize as
traditional (sometimes extreme) ethno-nationalism. This type of nationalism
perpetuates a traditional, romantic model of national identity that represents
national culture as deeply rooted in Ukraine's past, and casts Ukrainians in a
romanticized role not unlike populist official Soviet histories produced during
Stalinism.
The other type of nationalism does not at first resemble ethno-nationalism,
but rather is a cosmopolitan or civic form of national ideology that is now
frequently adopted by groups of liberal intellectuals and cultural producers in
Eastern Europe. When applied to Ukrainian culture, this approach advocates a
creative appropriation of European culture, and, as in the case of this festival,
builds a new series of attachments between Western youth subcultures and
Ukrainian identity. This strategy self-consciously and deliberately "shifts" the
public's perceptions of Ukrainian identity from the cliched positive/negative
heroes that peopled Soviet Ukrainian narratives to make Ukrainians seem
"Western." This second type of nationalism is usually referred to as "civic"
nationalism and is increasingly opposed to ethno-nationalism.2 It was this type
of nationalism that attracted students and young professionals to the Ukrainian
64
HRYCAK
national movement during glasnost. And yet—because of the way in which
nationalism is commonly understood—the development and promotion in
Ukraine of this type of nationalism has largely been ignored by most observers.
Since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, interest in the formation of glasnostera social movements—what sociologists refer to as "collective action"—has
proliferated among both domestic and foreign observers. The result has been a
slow but steady stream of published accounts of the "new" Ukrainian nationalism and why it led to independence. One of the most remarkable aspects of
many such accounts is their tendency to assume that there is a direct or easy
relationship between the appearance of such movements and general upturns in
economic and political grievances. Another is their tendency to treat nationalism as a unitary, undifferentiated phenomenon.
Deprivation-based arguments vastly oversimplify the motives of activists.
They lead observers to imply that particular varieties of nationalism can easily
be classified either as "bad nationalism"—which is caused by the displacement
of ethnic hostility (Brumberg 1992; Maryniak 1993; Tishkov 1997), or as
"good nationalism"—which is caused by illegitimately thwarted national aspirations (Diuk and Karatnycky 1990, 1993). Both of these two false alternatives
attribute a great deal of causal force to generalized beliefs and emotions that are
then typically ascribed to some preexisting latent disposition found in society at
large. What these approaches take for granted is an aggregate psychological
framework that views nationalism as a magnification of suppressed personal
discontent that must be expressed once it reaches a certain threshold. In this
way, each falls into the trap of earlier social scientific research that assumed
collective action was an essentially unmediated psychological phenomenon in
which atomized individuals spontaneously reacted to frustration by targeting a
scapegoat or seeking redress in some other way.3 This approach minimizes the
role played by social movements, political authorities, and other interested
parties who stand to benefit from particular ways of framing public concerns. It
also leaves unanswered why a relatively privileged group—students and young
people—jeopardized their chances of future success by joining protests, while
the most deprived groups in Ukraine—collective farmers and industrial workers—remained on the sidelines.
As social scientific research on collective action has repeatedly discovered,
grievances are a fairly constant feature of modern life. Expressions of collective discontent are, by contrast, relatively infrequent. They are particularly rare
in authoritarian contexts like glasnost-eız Soviet Ukraine, where government
authorities continued to use threats and coercion against participants in public
protest well after such activities were freely taking place elsewhere in the
USSR. According to rational choice explanations of high-risk collective action,
movement success in such cases depends on lowering the price of participation
COMING OF CHRYSLER IMPERIAL
65
by offering converts selective incentives.4 But in the case of the establishment
of the Ukrainian independence movement, it is just as inadequate to conceive
of activism as driven by grievances alone as it is to see it as simply the sum
total of self-conscious cost-benefit analysis. High-risk collective action may
occur in authoritarian contexts when activists learn to "hide in plain sight" by
gradually pushing the limits of the permissible at officially sanctioned public
events that are essentially no risk to them. As I will show below, the participation of Ukrainian students and young people in public protests during the late
eighties was not the result of their rational decision to participate in high-risk
protest activity. Rather, Rukh activists gradually and imperceptibly co-opted
institutionally organized activities targeting young people.5 The purpose of
official Soviet youth events and organizations was gradually subverted so as to
circumvent active consideration of the risk involved on the part of both participants and authorities.
The present approach draws on sociological theories that view social action
as embedded within the full range of possible meanings, perspectives, and
definitions of a given situation normally adopted by individuals socialized in a
given society (Mead 1932,1938). In other words, it takes collective action as a
product not of personal grievances or material benefits, but of "roles"—previously structured interactions that constrain and channel behavior. Accordingly,
I assume that human participants rarely respond in an unmediated way to an
event. Instead, participants are guided by their familiarity with established cues
or "frames" that strip reality of many of its potential attributes and establish a
particular well-learned definition of a situation that carries with it attendant
roles and expectations. Following Goffman's (1974) work on "frame analysis,"
social movement theorists have argued that the formation of collective action
"frames" is also a necessary precondition for effective mobilization of support
for social movements. According to this perspective, social movements and, by
analogy, state authorities, "function in part as signifying agents" that are actively engaged in the production and manipulation of such frames (Snow and
Benford 1992, 137).6 It was through their subversion of official frames and
adoption of Western youth culture that Rukh activists persuaded students and
young people to participate in high-risk collective action in Ukraine during
glasnost. The result was a new type of Ukrainian nationalism remarkably
different from the ethno-nationalist tradition that had been propagated by Soviet authorities. This new nationalism more closely resembled the Western,
civic model of nationalism that the Soviets had long suppressed.
"Vyvykh-92": A Typical Youth Ritual Observed
The effective redeployment by Rukh activists of preexisting collective action
frames produced by the Soviet state arguably explains the public's participation in an event that I witnessed not long after my arrival in Ukraine to conduct
sociological research on Ukrainian national mobilization. In 1992, just weeks
66
HRYCAK
after the first anniversary of Ukrainian independence, a self-proclaimed "national" festival captured the attention of the western Ukrainian city of L'viv.
For four days, "Vyvykh-92" transformed the city's central square with a blanket of patriotically colored yellow and blue posters and banners and a program
of well-attended public events focused on the presentation of a new Ukrainian
national myth. Each day, public rock concerts and a series of contests and
competitions attracted capacity crowds of young people that, to an outsider,
seemed surprisingly large and enthusiastic given the relative lack of interest
most Ukrainians exhibited toward other self-consciously patriotic public
events, concerts, and demonstrations.7 In contrast to the boredom and sparse
attendance evident at most ballet, opera, and theater performances I had observed, this festival was marked by people straggling to gain admission to the
city's Opera House for the premiere of the opera "Chrysler Imperial." The
spectators seemed barely able to contain themselves during the performance.
The public's enthusiasm was also evident at the film screenings and various
contests that took place in the city's normally half empty theaters. From the eve
of the festival, until the festival closed four days later with an elaborate ritual
burial of "Ukraine's troubles," the festival was attended by large, enthusiastic
crowds.
Why did this event succeed in attracting the sustained interest of its youthful
public? It is tempting (but inaccurate) to see this event's success as the simple
outcome of a rational decision to support the Ukrainian national activists who
gave it funding and organized it and many previous events like it: a public
opinion survey of participants, conducted by local sociologists, revealed that
the young public attended the event in order to "meet interesting people,"
rather than to "support new forms of Ukrainian culture" or "participate in the
Ukrainian national revival."8 This was also the organizers' conclusion.
Public events do not normally command the attention of the young people
who attended this festival. Never before had a sold out performance at the
Opera House provoked them to riot. With few exceptions, most of the students
and young people who attended the festival seemed to want more than anything
to be admired by their peers—especially the self-described "hippies," "punks,"
and "rockers" who attended the festival in droves and seemed to be its obvious
focus of attention. When I questioned them, members of the bands that performed at this festival and their entourages were indifferent to much of what
now transpires in local public life, hazy about many of the principal players,
and ill-informed about the facts and figures that sociologists and scholars
typically assume guide a person's decision to forego some other activity in
favor of attending a nationalist festival. Nonetheless, this festival was intended
by its organizers to inculcate national values, and to do so imperceptibly. In
this, it was a resounding success.
67
Reframing National Identity
How are non-native participants to make sense of this seemingly incongruous
event? As is often the case in the region, neither participants nor the organizers
seemed willing or able to articulate precisely what it was about this particular
festival that made it so remarkable. ("You wouldn't understand," I was repeatedly told.) And yet, the festival's organizers told me that in its use of "Aesopian
language" and appeal to young people this festival was typical of the events
that the Ukrainian independence movement used during the glasnost era to
create public support at a time when most Ukrainians were still too afraid of
repercussions to join public protests.
In order to understand why an event like "Vyvykh-92" succeeded in mobilizing the participation of young Ukrainians, it is necessary to understand the
similarities and differences between the strategies of mobilization this
festival's organizers used and the ones that the Soviet Ukrainian cultural establishment itself once adopted in seeking to educate students and young people
through official Soviet youth culture.9 Through its use of rock music and
inversion of historical narratives, this festival self-consciously sought to lead
young people to question the official establishment that had organized the
city's previous youth festivals and other public celebrations. A focus on the
rhetorical sleights of hand this festival's organizers used will demonstrate that
their effectiveness depended on the organizers' ability to ridicule the style of
nationalism the official cultural establishment publicly advocated, in the process creating support for the alternative style of nationalism the national movement advocated.
The sociological paradigm of micro-interactionism maintains that social
action is always guided by preexisting roles and expectations. One of the more
obvious ways to begin making sense of this festival is to compare the structure
of interaction the organizers sought to foreground in this festival relative to
typical roles and expectations they assumed to be their audience's frame of
reference. In fact, the event was self-consciously modeled in opposition to
L'viv's official city holiday, and by analogy, other official holidays with which
the youthful audience was familiar.
"City day" was a Soviet invention that celebrated L'viv's annexation by the
Soviet Union in early October 1939, an event that what was officially viewed
as L'viv's liberation from Fascist rale. In many respects, "City day" was no
different from other official festivals through which the Soviet cultural establishment attempted to inculcate patriotic values. It presented its public with a
series of events that celebrated official Soviet understandings of city history, to
the exclusion of alternative interpretations. In years past, "City day" events
tended to amplify and reenact the heroic deeds of official Soviet Ukrainian
history: glorifying not only Lenin but also the Ukrainian Cossack hetman
Bohdan KhmeinytsTcyi as well as Soviet Ukrainian leaders who had ostensibly
fought to defend the Ukrainian and Russian "fraternal" peoples from "foreign"
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invaders. Although all citizens were expected to participate in such events,
schoolchildren, adolescents, and students were as a rule present because their
participation was easiest to organize and ensure by virtue of school-based units
of such organizations as the Young Pioneers and Communist Youth League, in
which membership was virtually obligatory.
The major elements of a generic Soviet official holiday structured the 1992
festival. Typically, in preparation for official Soviet holidays, "socialist competitions" in honor of the upcoming celebration had been held in factories as well
as other workplaces. On the eve of a given holiday, rituals of initiation would
take place to induct new members into the Young Pioneers and other official
youth organizations. Preparations would culminate on the actual holiday with
public concerts and fireworks accompanied by processions of floats enacting
key turning points in Soviet history followed by organized contingents representing the city's major industrial, commercial, political, cultural and educational institutions, the Communist Party, as well as the Komsomol, "youth,"
"women," "the peasantry," and, finally, the "working masses." Processions
would be followed by cultural events and amateur activities on patriotic themes
(frequently targeting the same abstract social groupings represented in the
procession). Huge portraits of Lenin and other Soviet leaders would be suspended throughout the site of the festivities. Abundant use would be made of
red banners and flags as well as large panels inscribed with officials slogans
and declarations related to the Five Year Plan. Newspapers gave primary focus
to articles on commemorative themes, grandiose achievements of Soviet economic might, and feats of military prowess. All of these features were also
present in the case of the 1992 festival, albeit in ways that underscored their
ideological underpinnings.
One element that constituted a primary target of "Vyvykh's" organizers was
the highly staged initiation rituals that once inaugurated official holidays. On
the eve of the holiday, the festival's organizers convened what to me at first
seemed to be a mock trial of the editor of Post-postup, a newspaper that had
publicized the event. Gradually, it became clear to me that this event was an
inversion of ritual inductions: it took place on a ritually transformed stage,
complete with a portrait of Ukraine's president festooned in blue and yellow,
the colors of the national flag. After introducing the editor, a master of ceremony mock-ceremoniously recounted the editor's contributions to his nation,
and then asked members of the audience to address the editor's civic contributions. This unleashed a seemingly unending series of motions from the floor, as
one after another, artists and entertainers rose to give long impassioned
speeches—many decrying the editor's lack of moral character. Often, these
speeches were delivered in exaggerated Western Ukrainian dialect or in officious mock populist language, verse, or song, in a loud, melodramatic voice,
with frequent recourse to flamboyant patriotic metaphors.10 Even I, an outsider, gradually came to understand that speakers were imitating the official
Soviet style of Ukrainian patriotism. Judging from the audience's response,
69
they did so to great comic effect. This became particularly apparent after one of
the participants rose to deliver an uproariously funny parody, "Love Oklahoma," of the mechanically written Soviet Ukrainian patriotic poem,
Volodymyr Sosiura's "Love Ukraine" ("Liubit Ukrainu"; 1944), a World War
II recipient of the Stalin Prize later officially denounced for its nationalism.11
Through such parodies, the organizers carefully distinguished their own position from traditional Ukrainian nationalism.
Refraining Official Holidays
The festival not only drew on official Soviet formulas as the basis for the
general structure of its scheduled events. It self-consciously sought to subvert
the style of nationalism such events inculcated. In other words, the style of this
event seemed to draw its forcefulness and effectiveness from its consistent
focus on a well-known symbolic target (the official holiday), as well as its
consistent adoption of a particular style of delivery: satire.
Satirical intent is often signaled in literature as well as speech through the
use of a frame that informs the spectator that the performance that follows is
not intended to be viewed realistically. Often, satire will be framed as a contest
between the satirist (or, more reasonably, his persona, a fictive counterpart, the
"I" of the poem) and an adversary. The frames through which the festival's
organizers attempted to create an adversarial context for this event drew on
many connotations of the word "vyvykh" in attempting to "invert" the official
Soviet order that seemed their primary object of attack—the role spectators
played in official holidays did not evade their attention.12
Illustration 1. Public reading near the center of L'viv. Photo courtesy ofAnatoly Mizerny.
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Illustration 2. Public gathering near the center of L'viv. Photo courtesy of Anatoly
Mizerny.
One central target was the Soviet use of holidays to motivate productivity.
Official "holidays," advertisements implied, were in fact highly choreographed
efforts organized by the official order "from above" to control the leisure time
of the population and channel it into productive activities beneficial to the state.
The organizers thus issued invitations to the public in such a way as to jokingly
insult Ukrainians as "fools" who had long participated in such obvious charades:
For some time now people haven't had a real celebration— that is, if it could
be said that we have ever had one. After all, how could we ever unite the
entire Ukrainian people? . . . Some people are so bright that they ignored the
unveiling of the statue of Shevchenko in L'viv, instead sitting at home in front
of the TV or drinking beer in some pub—it's not for nothing that Taras came
out that way, as if a mug of beer had just slipped through his hands. Well at
last we have found a holiday for Ukraine that will bring us all together. And
for people like us, who have been playing the fool for between 50 and 70
years by now, and are continuing to play the fool, the only possible holiday
could be "Vyvykh."13
In short, the organizers implied, all members of Ukrainian society who had
secretly resisted the official order's manipulation to do "extra work" for the
state during holidays could openly celebrate now that Ukraine was independent.14
Another invitation to the holiday printed in the same newspaper even more
directly mocked the official order's efforts to squeeze more work out of holiday
71
activities: an official edict with thirty two distinct points ostensibly issued by
the Student Union's Security Service (the former KGB) that commanded students of each of the city's major educational institutions and all other youth to
participate in the festivities. Each distinct subcategory of the youthful population was issued mock injunctions in highly sentimental language identifying
how best to serve their people (from student-biologists, who were told "to
increase the number of warm-blooded bodies of domestic production" to student-foresters, who were told to "preserve our forests: they may come in
handy"). Items twenty-nine, thirty, and thirty-one commanded the public to
"love Ukraine," "love Oklahoma," and "to love [one another]"; the final item,
number thirty-two, ended with the old slogan "Glory to October!"15 This and
other advertisements framed the holiday in opposition to official celebrations
in which students and schoolchildren would be expected to "play the fool" by
"voluntarily" attending the holiday, as if their participation in "Vyvykh" was,
by contrast, a true choice.
The Coming of "Chrysler"
The rock opera "Chrysler Imperial," which organizers declared to be the
festival's "epicenter," further exemplified the organizer's own clever inversion
of official rituals. The festival's culmination, newspaper advertisements proclaimed, this opera was to reveal "a new national myth" to the general public.
"Chrysler Imperial" was performed each night of the festival in the L'viv
Opera House, an Art Nouveau building dating from the late nineteenth century,
and the site of many previous official Soviet holiday concerts. Located in the
symbolic center of the city, the Opera House is not far away from the building
that housed the city's branch of the Central State Museum of Lenin, where
exhibit halls once displayed popular reproductions of his clothing and personal
effects. An official tourist guidebook described the city's main statue of Lenin
(1952) as depicting the Soviet leader on "a red granite pedestal, modeled on a
tribune, in a dynamic pose intended to show him turning to the city's workers"
(Trebuhova and Mykh 1989). It dominated the area in front of the Opera House
until 1990, when it was the first Soviet statue of its kind to be publicly
demolished by glasnost-sra activists—an event that was televised throughout
the Soviet Union and shocked authorities and civilians alike (Grant 1995;
Tumarkin 1997).
The festival's location in this spot was no coincidence. "Vyvykh-92" maintained a clear focus on the cult of Lenin and its dependence on poetry, ballet,
opera and other forms of elite culture. Indeed, much of the excitement surrounding the event seemed derived from its location in the city center, and its
"ritual defilement" of previously sacred places. "Victory square," as the central
square was called during the Soviet era, had been a space carefully policed by
Soviet authorities. Officially named in honor of the Soviet conquest of Germany, the space had been carefully monitored in the past so as to prevent
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unofficial activities and create an appropriately solemn focus on Lenin.16 As
the country's symbolic leader, Lenin was also appropriately the focus of previous official city holidays, which invariably included elaborately dramatized
speeches delivered by an actor who specialized in this impersonation.
The cult of Lenin, and its expression in various high cultural institutions,
was a central frame through which "Vyvykh's" organizers depicted their own
event's didactic intent. Where the statue of Lenin once stood, the organizers
built an immense rock music stage modeled on the ornate Opera House roof.
Where previously one would find posters in red and black depicting Lenin and
other Soviet leaders, the organizers covered all available walls with yellow and
blue posters depicting mythic creatures, collages of kitsch and drawn on lips
covering Leninesque heads, and "Chrysler Imperial's" authors, the poetry collective "Bu-Ba-Ba," dressed in Ukrainian military costumes standing atop
pedestals on the central square. Organizers redecorated a large building located
at the other end of the central square with sentimentally patriotic parodies of
official Ukrainian poetry. They even suspended forty-foot-long phallic clear
plastic balloons from the trees and light posts that lined the square. Although
newspaper ads claimed these balloons were a reference to "sausage mentality,"
a phrase used to describe people who can not rise above thinking about their
stomach all the time, I observed that quite a number of shocked onlookers who
gathered to discuss the meaning of these decorations clearly thought otherwise.
I saw one middle-aged woman react with horror by averting her child's eyes
and rushing off in another direction. During "Vyvykh," pedestrians froze in
their tracks once they reached the periphery of the central square.
Earlier, official holidays invariably culminated in the attendance of youth
organizations at didactic theater performances intended to celebrate the heroism of model citizens—typically Lenin or some other Soviet leader portrayed
as a young man who learns to sacrifice private happiness so as to protect the
fatherland from various internal and external enemies. As official history,
many of these plays shared the faults of much patriotic writing: their analyses
of motives were often superficial, their chronology of events faulty, the facts
upon which they were based were exaggerated and sometimes fabricated outright. Such performances featured contrived speeches written in a heavy
handed moralistic manner, frequently punctuated by long, elaborately choreographed musical numbers imitating operas, ballets, and other examples of
"legitimate" high culture.
Similarly, advertisements for the festival focused attention on nightly performances of the opera "Chrysler Imperial," an "opera" expressly written for
the edification of the city's youth. This burlesque performance clearly seemed
to mock the gratuitous use of "high culture" in official youth culture, and to
celebrate the values of Western pop music subcultures.17
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"Chrysler Imperial"
Prior to the curtain rising, the opera's director mock-ceremoniously reads a
florid plot summary to the audience describing a seemingly generic and yet
nonsensical epic plot focusing on the adventures of a decidedly unheroic trio of
protagonists, the members of the poetic collective "Bu-Ba-Bu":
The young beauty Amalthea Garazdets', during her debutante ball, is kidnapped by an evil sorcerer. The old prince РоріГ, stepfather of the young
beauty, calls all the rich men of Swaziland to go out in search of his stepdaughter. Only the three brave Bubabists volunteer—Vernyhora, Vyrvyrdub,
and Krutylytsia. From their first step on their journey the evil enchantress
Clytemnestra tries to stand in their way. The big-eared Troll helps her in this
endeavor. But when the three volunteers finally end up losing their way in the
snares of the sly enchantress, there appear Samiilo Nemyrych and Andrii
Delcampo, twin enchanted princes the evil enchantress has transformed into a
pair of donkeys. Having freed the heroes, their previous appearance returns,
after which they set out together with the brave ones in search of the beauty.
But their further journeys are also full of adventure and danger. A pack of
nurses-Furies under the direction of the Girl with the Pies puts them under a
spell with her chimerical and magical song. The heroes fall asleep and it is
only the coincidental appearance of the Flying Head that rescues them from
total destruction. The same Flying Head leads them forward to new achievements and victories. A decisive battle finally occurs in the cave of the sorcerer, in which the heroes are opposed by the executioner Pavlo Matsapura,
Iurko Nemyrych, Mr. Bazio, Martofliakova Martha, and other embodiments
of evil and obscurity. After a bloody battle, the beauty Amalthea is able to free
herself from the enchanted dungeon. A general victory. The song of the
Eastern Slavs is heard, and the heroes triumphantly return home. Happy
Ending.18
Immediately afterward, the pit orchestra plays an overture that interweaves an
anthem-like heavy metal rock song entitled "The Flying Head" and the Ukrainian national anthem. Suddenly, from above, the attention of the crowd shifts
to the angelic voices of a children's choir emanating from the uppermost tier of
seats. The children, dressed like Young Pioneers, wear the colors of the Ukrainian flag, blue and yellow, around their neck instead of the familiar red kerchiefs. The choir sings what at first sounds like a somber composition honoring
a grave personage, but gradually it becomes clear that their object is the poetry
collective "Bu-Ba-Bu," a name the altos intone in rhythmic, bell-like tones
while the sopranos sing nonsensical phrases about poetry and fame (as if by
sheer coincidence, a term of profanity is embedded in the adjoining syllables of
two words in the song's refrain).
The performance follows what is presented as a fairly cliched rite-of-passage story of a young poet, ritually transformed by a Party Secretary into a
Ukrainian prince (and clearly marked as a representative of high culture), as he
travels on a journey to rescue the beautiful princess, set contrapuntally against
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Illustration 3. From "Chrysler Imperial." Photo courtesy ofAnatoly Mizerny.
a nonsensical savior myth about the coming of "Chrysler" that is performed
primarily through rock music. A variety of mock heroic elements are used to
underscore the ridiculously exaggerated nature of the savior myth as well as the
anti-heroic nature of the poet and would-be hero-prince. The dissonance between the two frames of reference is also accentuated through the constant
opposition between mock-serious high culture performances (opera, ballet,
symphonic music) and episodic appearances by popular local rock musicians
and their bands. Thus, immediately after the mock-heroic orchestral overture
and choral prelude, the curtain rises to reveal a strange scene resembling the
emergence of the first humans from the mists of time. A small group of halfclothed individuals slowly awakes from their slumbers as the sun rises.
Throughout, the L'viv Opera House orchestra plays the cliched overture from
Edvard Grieg's Pier Gynt Suite. Three or four figures garbed in rags crawl out
from under newspapers in a shadowy L'viv street and stare into the spotlight
shining down on them into their eyes. One of them gesticulates into the light
with horror, and with difficulty tries to form words.19 He repeats a phrase three
times. Although the phrase resembles the traditional Orthodox Easter greeting
"Christ has risen," it is actually "Djul-Bars has hanged himself." The contrast—Djul-Bars being a common dog's name—evokes laughter from the audience.20 The cheap special effect smoke that has surrounded the figures suddenly and dramatically spreads out into the audience, as the curtain falls.
Next, an actor dressed in black tie and rabbit ears appears in the rear of the
opera, scurrying up to the stage while repeating the words "Chrysler," with
varying degrees of astonishment, wonder, and solemnity. Turning to the audi-
75
ence, he begins to sing the praises of the future savior "Chrysler Imperial" in
the sing-song voice one would expect of an Alice-in-Wonderland character. In
addition to possessing the wisdom and magnanimity generally attributed to
religious prophets, this one, the rabbit assures us, will bring "American dollars,
German marks, English pounds, and a car for each and everyone of us." The
appearance of a man on stage startles the rabbit, who hides in a nearby telephone booth and furtively observes two figures walk on stage.
A man dressed in a baseball cap, an orange and black hunting shirt, and a
down vest walks on stage. His speech and mannerisms mark him as an older
man from the Ukrainian-American diaspora—yet another cliché, the halfmythic "rich American uncle" who the authorities repeatedly warned young
Soviet citizens to avoid. (In this case, he also is a psychiatrist, a doubly
subversive figure.) Walking with him is a young boy—whom we soon discover
to be a poet—dressed in the tracksuit and sneakers many teenagers in L'viv
wear. Before the boy knows what is happening to him, the Ukrainian-American
commands him to a reception, but tells him that he cannot go dressed as he is.
Throughout this and the rest of the opera, the poet remains mute except for a
single question he asks at this point. A voice over a loud speaker echoes "Will
they ask me to read my poems?" The psychiatrist responds, "Your poems are of
no interest to them. All that matters to them is that you are a famous Ukrainian
poet."
The psychiatrist next leads the boy into a nineteenth century drawing room,
where an attendant dressed as a Communist Party Secretary proceeds to un-
lllustration 4. From "Chrysler Imperial." The three leads are the triad that make up BuBa-Bu. From left: Viktor Neborak, Yuri Andrukhovych, and Oleksandr Irvanets'. Photo
courtesy ofAnatoly Mizerny.
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dress the boy (in a suggestive manner) stripping him down to a pair of pale blue
ballet tights. A string quartet in court costume and powdered wigs begins
playing Handel.21 The Secretary stamps his foot, and clothes of every description appear to float up from the floor. The leering Party Secretary gravely
selects a halter top the color of the Ukrainian flag with a flower attached to its
center, and proceeds to dress the boy in it. He then chooses a pink and blue
spangled frock coat, all the while stroking the boy lasciviously.
Fantastically transformed "from a poet into a prince," the boy proceeds to a
strange party, where the diabolic diaspora psychiatrist introduces him to a
princess and her parents. The princess in turn introduces the young poet to the
various strange characters that populate the mythic world they have now entered, quite a few of whom seem to be phantasmagorical creatures from past
centuries. After the presentation of various grotesque and absurd characters,
the poet is seen in the background playing cards with the devil, and losing. The
croupiers carry him off to a black mass (choreographed in the style of Fellini).
He is about to lose his life when the princess, who tries to save him, appears. As
they are making their escape, a dancing girl weaves her way through the
audience, and onto stage, flourishing a decapitated head on a platter—a clear
illusion to Herod's execution of John the Baptist. The song "the Flying Head"
plays while she dances, provocatively presenting the decapitated head to the
audience, and then to the rabbit.
The head next reappears on stage, flying through the air, and is magically
reattached by the groping hands of what appears to be its decapitated, searching
body. If the head on the platter of the dancing girl was an allusion to John the
Baptist, then it can be assumed that the headless body is the return of some kind
of prophet.22 But the "second coming" of this prophet reveals that he is a
totalitarian leader, endowed with absolute power. The figure identifies himself
as the "Eternal Jew, the Holy Spirit, Jesus Christ, Beelzebub, a Nazi, an
alchemist, a French chansonnier, a mujahedeen, a millionaire." All this he
chants rhythmically to the sound of whining electric guitars. By the end of the
song, he himself is no longer simply chanting, he adopts a Fascist pose, gives
the Fascist salute, raising one arm stiffly to the crowd (the crowd is visibly
confused), and marches off stage. Several scenes later, at the end of the opera,
as if for no apparent reason, the bare shell of a Chrysler Imperial is rolled out
onto the stage while Led Zeppelin music plays. This is the "coming of
Chrysler," foretold by the rabbit. The effect is anticlimactic. The Chrysler
Imperial consists solely of two enormous headlights that partially blind the
audience, but these blinding lights do not prevent viewers from seeing that this
car, their savior, lacks substance. In the finale, all characters unite in song, the
curtain closes, and the children's choir sings the Dadaistic Bu-Ba-Bu song with
which the opera began. The audience seems surprised that the opera has come
to an end.
In a facile inversion of socialist realist historical narratives, "Chrysler Imperial" reveals the impossibility of the triumphant return of their dead savior.
77
Their prophet is transformed into a tin pot despot who believes that he is
endowed with universal, supernatural powers. The would-be savior, Chrysler
Imperial, is revealed to be an empty shell. An immortal prophet—in what some
have taken to be a reference to Lenin—is revealed to be a fascist.
At the outset of "Chrysler Imperial," the event's artistic director presents to
the audience a plot that frames the action to come, introducing its main characters and creating a horizon of expectations regarding what will happen to them
within the two-hour opera to follow. Yet the opera fails to live up to these
expectations, in large part because the protagonists fail to fulfill their expected
functions within the narrative. The plot should lead the audience to expect that
the poet and his attempts to rescue the princess will be the central goal, and that
actions will gradually progress toward the attainment of this goal. But the
performance as a whole consists of a variety of individual performances that
are only circumstantially united. The heroic plot which apparently joins the
opera together is spurious: most of the action in the opera takes place through
performances by characters who are oblivious to each other's existence, and
who have no bearing on the outcome of the alleged plot. Neither the fulfillment
of the poet's quest, nor the appearance of the Flying Head—nor even the
coming of Chrysler—are true dramatic climaxes. The opera does not build
progressively up to a moment of dramatic tension in which the heroine is about
to be rescued. The other characters are not presented as devices for moving
along this plot. The main characters remain stereotypes with no substance. The
central protagonist's heroism is itself repeatedly challenged by his inability to
master the peripheral characters. The latter go on with their performances
without contributing to, or interfering with, the poet's alleged progress toward
a goal at the ostensible center of the opera. Conventional cliched understandings of nationalism and leadership are made to look absurd in this performance
by artists and musicians who adopt the identity of Western rock-and-roll stars.
Collective Identity and the Success of the Ukrainian Independence Movement
It should be somewhat understandable why events like "Chrysler Imperial"
would attract the interest of young Ukrainians previously deprived of the right
to openly enjoy rock music. Clearly, antics of the sort presented at the rock
opera examined above would tickle the fancy of young Communist Youth
League members. But what relationship do events like this have to Ukrainian
nationalism?
Most approaches to glasnost-eta Ukrainian national mobilization equate it
with traditional ethnonationalism and assume that the national movement attracted support through appeals to ethnic grievances and expectations of material benefits. While many Ukrainians who voted for Ukrainian independence
after the Soviet Union collapsed were undoubtedly swayed by traditional
ethnonationalism, this is not an adequate explanation for the early phases of
mobilization, when most acts of civil disobedience were carried out by students
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and young Ukrainians like those who attended "Vyvykh." Appeals to traditional nationalism, or to ethnic grievances and material benefits, did not motivate this social group to support national activists. One clear indicator of this is
the fact that Soviet authorities had long advocated a socialist variety of traditional Ukrainian nationalism and featured it at official Soviet holidays. Young
Ukrainians were unlikely to be moved by appeals to a style of thought that had
for so long been associated with official culture.
Effective contemporary social movements do not grow by attracting individual recruits through appeals to grievances or material benefits. They tend
instead to recruit existing voluntary associations. Thus, successful collective
action in this case depended on the transformation and extension of preexisting
roles and expectations to create a collective identity that appealed to a sizeable
preexisting community: members of the official Soviet youth group,
Komsomol.
Collective identity has come to be seen by many social scientists as an
important variable shaping the success of social movements. According to one
influential anthology on social movements, many prominent theorists: "consider 'collective identity' as a social construct linking the individual, the cultural system, and, in some cases, the organizational carrier of the movement"
(Mueller 1992, 15). Because appeals to traditional Ukrainian identity had long
been used by Komsomol and other official Soviet organizations to attract
support, they could not possibly have worked to motivate support for glasnostera national mobilization.
One crucial element of success in the Ukrainian case was the construction of
an effective "collective action frame" that harnessed the youthful aspirations of
politically apathetic Ukrainian adolescents brought up on a diet of compulsory
political activism and official nationalism. It made them willing to voluntarily
attend public rock concerts sponsored by a political movement every bit as
nationalist as the Communist Party had by then become. Such a collective
action frame is a set of beliefs and meanings that inspire and legitimate social
movement activities and campaigns, serving "as accenting devices that either
underscore and embellish the seriousness and injustice of a social condition or
aspect of life and define it as unjust, intolerable, and deserving of corrective
action" (Snow and Bedford 1992,137). Although recent studies have tended to
split over which other factors typically influence social movement formation
and success, the crucial mediating role of such frames and other cognitive
dimensions of collective identity has emerged as a major point of agreement
among theorists from a wide variety of disciplinary orientations.23
Typically, other observers of this and other festivals have focused more than
I have on the motives and beliefs that might lead Ukrainians to join the national
independence movement. Uncovering the motives of the festival organizers is
no easy task—which I learned both while researching this festival and later
while presenting early drafts of my work to academic audiences. A number of
influential Western observers who interviewed members of the artistic coali-
79
tion that sponsored this and other youth festivals have later gone on to publish
reports that failed to account for the rock-music inspired style of national
identity constructed by the festival's non-conformist organizers, suggesting
only that western Ukrainians had embraced a potentially dangerous form of
nationalism.24 There is a double irony here: not only were the writers in the
"Vyvykh" group self-consciously opposed to the strategies used by most local
nationalists, but many members of the academic audiences before whom I later
presented my results were unable to recognize the possibility that these creative
west Ukrainians had adopted an alternative approach to traditional nationalism
that was itself nationalist.
Collective identities work most successfully to create movements precisely
when they define a "we" that resonates powerfully with the understandings and
expectations of a heterogeneous audience that is already enrolled in formal
organizations. Activists will be particularly effective if they target an organization like the Communist Youth League that has lost what little popular appeal it
once had under the impact of Western youth culture and, in effect, give its
members what they want. (In this case, rock music.) As sociological studies of
micro-interactionism suggest, one of the most effective ways of delegitimating
a preexisting collective identity is to demonstrate that it is constructed in
opposition to culturally accepted values held by the "role models" that an
organization's members aspire to emulate. The frames that were used by the
festival's organizers were clearly devoted to this end: they quite successfully
delegitimated the preexisting collective action frames used to mobilize youth
by contrasting them to the apparent freedom and excitement of Western youth
culture. During glasnost, this made it easy to attract young supporters (quite
unwitting nationalists) to public protests structured as rock concerts.
The festival's organizers sought to promote an atmosphere within which
they could attract the support of a public capable of challenging the Soviet
state's monopoly on mass public events. To do so, they did not have to fully
reveal their own identity project (indeed, this would no doubt have been
ineffective). Rather, they simply had to self-consciously subvert the particular
collective action frames associated with the "official nationalism" promoted
under Communism. The competing identity projects of the latter had created a
mass organization of bored youth, many of whom would jump at the chance of
attending a rock concert.
At the most general level, the frames the organizers used could also be seen
as drawing on three sets of values commonly stressed in Soviet education:
rationality, self-determination, and pluralism. These themes emerged repeatedly in the way the organizers represented their event. Implicitly and explicitly,
their strategies asserted that other public authorities base their own identity
projects on myth, conformism, and homogeneity.
The festival's appropriation of frames that helped define their opposition to
myth, conformism, and homogeneity was expressed most obviously in its
advertisements. "Vyvykh" advertisements transformed the gray cityscape of
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L'viv, covering the walls of most downtown shops with a blanket of brightly
colored posters announcing upcoming events. Two of the most frequently used
posters featured the poetry collective, "Bu-Ba-Bu." One poster depicted the
members of this collective, garishly garbed in nationalist military costumes,
standing in heroic poses atop the pedestal that normally supports the statue of
Adam Mickiewicz that is located in the center of L'viv. Another poster featured
the cartoonish "flying head" of Victor Neborak, member of Bu-Ba-Ba and
author of the poem of that name that became a central motif of the opera
"Chrysler Imperial." Depicted in much the same pose as holiday posters of
Lenin (see Tumarkin 1997), Neborak's face was occluded by a collage of
kitschy magazine cut-outs, decidedly unlike the typical portraits of Lenin that it
seemed to mock. A third poster satirically invoked the vulgar use of political
symbols characteristic of communist political posters. Across a somber red and
black field, there appeared a schedule of the rock and rock groups that would
perform during the festival written in the shape of a musical note, also surrounded by kitschy cartoon cut-outs. These three posters each framed communism and nationalism as rhetorical equivalents, by contrast, suggesting that the
festival represented a real alternative to both ideologies.
Non-conformism also determined the choice of rock music performances
and other events that took place during the festival. Non-conformism, as it was
formerly understood in the Soviet Union, focused in large part on the adoption
of various forms of Western popular culture. Rock music dominated
"Vyvykh": the several days of rock music concerts by popular bands took place
on the city's central square, on a stage located on the spot in the city's central
square where L'viv's main statue of Lenin had until recently stood. Ideological
non-conformism was also expressed in various other events: a jazz performance, a number of contests (e.g., "erotic poetry and jokes," "contortions,
grimaces, and masks," and "stand-up comedy and satire"), an art exhibit, a
contest for re-decorated cars, and a movie festival focusing on the debut of the
satirical documentary "A Message for Margaret Thatcher" (in which the filmmaker chronicles his efforts to send Margaret Thatcher a Ukrainian Easter
egg—one of the most sentimental and kitschy objects of Ukrainian folk art
known in the West). The festival organizers arguably used familiar images of
kitsch to lampoon the cliched roles and expectations Communists wished to
force upon young Ukrainians. Thus, they achieved their goal of reconstituting
the manifest functions of organized youth culture, making young Ukrainian
rock-and-roll fans available for potential anti-Communist activities.
81
Conclusion
Several lessons arise from an analysis of "Vyvykh-92." First, typical approaches to Ukrainian nationalism, adopted by many observers during
glasnost, mistakenly assumed that the Ukrainian national movement that arose
during glasnost was fueled by the grievances of a large ethnic group whose
identity had been artificially suppressed for nearly a century (in the case of
Eastern Ukraine). This is an incorrect interpretation of Ukrainian nationalism.
It misunderstands not only the structure of opportunities that gave rise to this
particular movement, but also the mechanisms by which social movements
arise in complex societies. It also tends to lead to apocalyptic media pronouncements about the dangers posed by unleashed ethnic sentiments, and, in
some cases (China's Tiananman Square is one famous example), provides a
convenient justification for government crackdowns on student protests.
How then should we understand this movement's success? First, it is important to recognize that the Ukrainian national movement differed little from
preexisting organizational and institutional behavior. It was shaped by preexisting norms, styles of communication, and institutions. It was not spontaneous,
unorganized, irrational, or emotional. Indeed, as in the case of events like
"Vyvykh," the public events through which the national movement widened its
circle of influence differed in quite carefully controlled ways from highly
scripted official events.
Furthermore, it is important to recognize that the national movement was a
coalition that united a variety of preexisting social strata and groups, many of
which were (and remain) self-consciously opposed. The movement was a
reflection of what Soviet Ukraine had become by glasnost: a diverse, highly
educated society whose positions of authority were occupied by urban elites
educated in Soviet institutions. The students and young Ukrainians who organized "Vyvykh" led the movement because they were already being groomed
for leadership positions in their respective fields. Leadership of the movement
was a simple extension of the roles these young individuals had been encouraged to adopt by the Komsomol and other Soviet institutions. Rather than
rejecting their society, they were products of it.
Still, the students who participated in early stages of glasnost national
mobilization were different in their goals and expectations than the activists
and adherents the movement later attracted through careful coalition building.
Thus, in the early stages of high-risk activism, young non-conformist poets and
rock stars were typical ideologues of Ukrainian nationalism; but their hybrid
style of nationalism was not for everyone. As the national movement grew, it
could not afford to alienate the official Ukrainian cultural establishment that
"Vyvykh's" organizers so deftly lampooned.
Nonetheless, both the non-conformist style of nationalism and the traditional variety that had been promoted by the Soviet cultural establishment
ultimately shared a common goal (even if supporters of civic Ukrainian nation-
82
HRYCAK
alism are loath to admit this). Their activities privilege the role that the Ukrainian language should play in public life. Their common adherence to an
ideology linking personal identity to speaking a "prestigious" language
emerges as the primary latent function served by the "national" festival
"Vvykh-92." Moreover, as social movement research has found in many other
cases, truly disadvantaged speech communities rarely possess the skills and
resources needed for national independence. Had it not been for the Soviet
state's generous funding of Ukrainian culture, "Vyvykh"—as well as other
events through which the Ukrainian language acquires new prestige—would
scarcely have been conceivable, let alone effective. The Soviet Union's institutions in fact created the seeds of their own demise—not by suppressing Ukrainian culture, but rather by mass-producing it on a previously unimaginable
scale.
83
Appendix
Proclamation
"Vyvykh-92"—is a grandiose carnivalesque action, that will move all strata,
mini-strata, castes and groups, dying as well as nascent classes of "independent of aging" L'viv, granting them new directions for new, yet-unseen
movements.
THE MOVEMENT ABOVE ALL ELSE!
The crown of the carnival—is limitless. Its stalk—Liberty prospect. And this
is deeply symbolic. From the paintings on the cobblestones to the fireworkilluminated skies above the opera theater stretches its holiday space. The
word, sound, color, scent, touch will become embodied in the most unexpected artistic forms. The blind will see, the mute will begin to speak, the deaf
will hear.
UKRAINE IS TEARING THE MASK OF SORROW FROM ITS FACE!
The epicenter of the carnival will be the poeso-opera "Chrysler Imperial"—a
vision and forewarning, foreshadowing and manifestation, appearance and
disappearance, a unique performance directed by Serhii Proskurnia based on
motifs of a newly-formed national myth created by the poetic association
"Bu-Ba-Bu." They are already known on all the world's continents, including
Africa and Antarctica. This is a page of the new Ukrainian culture, which is
being written before your eyes. Invest your stocks! Sign your name! Create it
with us!
YOUTH, WHICH PARLIAMENTARIANS HAVE FORGOTTEN,
STILL EXISTS!
IT WANTS TO BE HAPPY!
That is why at the festival we will laugh, change our clothes, go on treasure
hunts,
discover new lands at arm's length.
Let us not forget our diaspora!
Let us help America and America will help us!
Long live Vyvykh -92
Glory to Ukraine!
In the name of the organizational committee,
Viktor Neborak
Source: Post-postup 29 September 1992: 6
84
HRYCAK
NOTES
*
I would like to thank the International Research and Exchanges Board,
the Social Science Research Council-MacArthur Foundation's joint
Council on International Peace and Security, and the United States Institute of Peace for the financial support that made possible the research on
which this paper is based. I also benefited greatly from encouragement
and criticism offered by audiences at the weekly seminar at the Harvard
Ukrainian Research Institute, the University of Chicago's Comparative
Politics and Historical Sociology Workshop, the University of Chicago's
Anthropology of Europe Workshop, and the American Sociological
Association's annual meetings.
1.
Throughout this paper I shall make clear that the phenomena I am
investigating are defined by the Ukrainian experience of glasnost (usually translated as 'openness') under Gorbachev in the USSR. Note,
though, that the defining event that I investigate, the "Vyvykh" festival
of September 1992, falls outside the chronological period of glasnost, but
is nevertheless still defined by processes begun under it.
2.
See Kohn 1965 for an excellent discussion of the difference between the
two varieties of nationalism.
3.
Thus, in Arendt's (1951) Origins of Totalitarianism and Kornhauser's
(1959) Politics of Mass Society, among other examples of what was then
called the study of "collective behavior," scholars assumed that Nazism,
Stalinism and other mass political movements were more or less unmediated psychological phenomena supported largely by individuals spontaneously reacting to the disorganization and frustration brought about by
modernization. This approach largely failed to explain the timing of such
movements, which emerged simultaneously in countries at various stages
of modernization. Because it neglected to study the construction and
manipulation of public opinion by social movements, political authorities, and other interested parties, this approach could also not account for
their location—why only some countries and not others responded to
modernization in this way.
4.
See Loveman 1998 for a discussion of rational choice explanations of
high-risk collective action.
5.
Thus, for example, one young conservatory student I interviewed told me
that she never actively made a choice to join the human chain linking
L'viv and Kyiv because Komsomol channels were used to organize this
activity (interview, September 30, 1992). Similarly, a young art student
recalls never making an active choice to participate in public protests.
Rather, a Komsomol meeting was called in which the organizer explained in detail where and when an upcoming protest would take place.
85
When he and his classmates were not directly told not to go to this event,
they interpreted this ambiguity as a tacit invitation to encourage them to
attend (interview, name withheld upon request, November 14,1992).
6.
A focus on what is now often called a social movement's "identity" was
absent from the terminology of the older collective behavior school that
focused on grievances and deprivation (as represented for example by
Turner and Killian 1957 [1972; 1987]), as well as resource mobilization
theory and newer rational choice explanations of collective action (e.g.,
Tilly 1978, Chong 1991). But, in the last decade, frames and other
building blocks of identity have become an increasingly central focus in
theoretical accounts of collective action (see Larana, Johnston, and
Gusfield 1994; Oberschall 1993).
7.
My informants told me that, since the Soviet Union's collapse, most
patriotic public events Rukh officially organizes fail to attract the interest
of Ukraine's apathetic post-Soviet population. Indeed, public demonstrations, concerts, and meetings I witnessed were almost invariably poorly
attended. It is not unusual for organizers and participants to outnumber
audience members and onlookers at many such events. By contrast,
"Vy vykh" drew large, enthusiastic crowds of teenagers and young adults
that organizers estimated at twenty to fifty thousand. Even if this estimate
was somewhat exaggerated, the festival flooded the city's central square
and filled local cultural institutions to capacity. By contrast, other festivals and performances frequently took place before half empty halls of
bored school children on class outings.
8.
When I interviewed them, theater directors and actors who had in the past
participated in official festival performances condemned the festival.
Similarly, newspaper accounts made clear that this festival was yet another example of a long series of "youth" festivals, all of which were
"anti-cultural" and "anti-artistic" in their values (e.g., Romaniuk 1992).
But a public opinion survey commissioned by the city council, conducted
by university sociologists, and published in the newspaper Post-postup,
concluded that the event was a success precisely because the event was
not seen as nationalist by its audience. In its final report, the commission
stated: "Of course, today's realities dictate that any large scale cultural
event include the meta-goal of the achievement of certain national cultural goals. But the achievement of these goals is more effective the
greater the national agent is mediated and diluted by an artistic event"
(Rybak 1992).
9.
Youth culture has for over two decades been the object of considerable
attention among American and British scholars. There are numerous
general studies of the effects of Rock music on youth culture, most of
them focused on Anglo-American musical subcultures and their influ-
86
HRYCAK
ence (see Brake 1980; Frith 1996 for reviews of this field). Recently, a
number of scholarly treatments of socialist and post-socialist youth culture have appeared that focus primarily on Russia's largest urban centers
(see Coulloudon 1988; Pilkington 1994; Rayport Rabodzeenko 1998;
Riordan 1988, 1989; Ryback 1990; Traver 1989; Weaver 1992). Although Ukrainian journals like Suchasnist' and newspapers like Postpostup have in the past decade devoted considerable attention to Ukrainian youth culture, few Western scholars have written about this field
(for exception, see Bahry 1989; Wanner 1998).
10.
Considerations of space prevent further examination of the festival's
organizers stress on their own self-consciously urban identities, in opposition to the country bumpkins that they suggested once ruled Ukraine.
11.
This and most other "Bu-Ba-Bu" poems featured in "Chryslter Imperial"
appear in a subsequently published anthology, Bu-Ba-Bu (1995).
12.
Although it has no easy English equivalent, the noun vyvykh is a
nominalization that refers to dislocation as either a physical or mental
state or process. Used figuratively, it refers to strangeness in thinking or
reasoning. Its verb form, vyvykhnuty refers either to the spraining or
dislocation of a joint, or figuratively, to mental abnormality. With a
reflexive suffix, vyvykhnutysia refers to circumvention or avoidance of
duties or obligations through subterfuge (see Andrusyshen and Krett
1955[1990], 65).
13.
Post-postup 29 September 1992: 2.
14.
See Appendix, p. 83.
15.
Post-postup 29 September 1992: 2.
16.
As part of the introduction of Soviet rule to L'viv, state authorities
devised an official general plan for the development of the city. Great
attention was paid to the expansion and what officials called the "bringing to order" of the public squares in the city center. In the case of the
central square, this process entailed the removal of many of the preexisting commercial enterprises and private dwellings that lined the square,
and the removal of tram stops from the area. Private-use buildings were
taken over by official institutions, and the pre-war Museum of Applied
Arts became a branch of the Central Museum of Lenin (see Trehubova
and Mykh 1989).
17.
"Chrysler Imperial," belongs to a particular genre of literature, burlesque.
Works in this genre typically imitate a serious literary or artistic form in
such a manner as to develop an extravagant incongruity between the
subject and its treatment. In this opera, as is common with burlesque, the
serious is treated lightly (elite culture in general, and Soviet youth culture
in particular) and the frivolous seriously (pop culture in general, and
Western pop culture in particular). Throughout, patriotic emotions typi-
87
cally sentimentalized by official culture were trivialized, and trivial emotions typically villified by official culture were elevated to a dignified
plane.
18.
The opera takes its plot from the novel "Recreation," written by Yuri
Andrukhovych, also a member of "Bu-Ba-Bu." This novel first appeared
in the inaugural Ukrainian issue of the Ukrainian literary and political
journal, Suchasnist', formerly published in New York City, before relocating to Ukraine after independence. In introducing the novel, Mykola
Riabchuk (1992), a prominent Kyiv literary critic facetiously hailed this
novel as just as important for the present time as the publication of Taras
Shevchenko's Kobzar, the Ukrainian mythmaker. For the author's subsequent thoughts on the novel and "Chrysler Imperial," see Andrukhovych
(1994, 12-13).
19.
This actor first became known throughout western Ukraine for his performance of folk songs and ballads, and achieved fame during glasnost
for founding the cabaret theater Ne zhurys' (Don't Worry) that performed
a critical role in national mobilization.
20.
This is a reference to a Neborak poem about a dog hanged by its own
chain. Various literary critics have tried to analyze this poem as a metaphor for the death of a nation, or of the suspicious death by hanging of a
famed Ukrainian bard believed to have been killed by the KGB, but the
author has repeatedly insisted that the poem is just about his dog, which
hanged itself on its chain one night. See "Monologue with a dog's ghost,"
Viktor Neborak, Litaiucha Holova (The Flying Head, 1990), p. 34.
21.
The Party Secretary opens a book he is holding, and announces "Georg
Friedrich Handel, minuet in D," barely correcting himself when he mispronounces the last name in the way that Russian-speakers do, substituting a g sound for the sound h, which does not exist in the Russian
language.
22.
Here there is another note of irony. One may recall that in the Gospel
narrative, John the Baptist called the people of Israel to repent their sins
and lead Godly lives. He also criticized Herod, the Jewish tetrarch (and
representative of Roman power), for coveting his brother Philip's wife,
Herodias. For this, Herod arrested John the Baptist, but lacked the courage to put him to death for fear of popular protest. After watching
Herodias' daughter dance, he was so pleased with it that he granted her a
wish and promised to fulfil it unconditionally. Prompted by her mother,
she asked for, and received, John the Baptist's head on a platter. Later,
John the Baptist's disciples retrieved the prophet's decapitated body,
carried it away, buried it, and sought Jesus out to report their loss. Jesus,
after listening to their story, removed himself from the crowd, and went
off to pray, rather than rallying the masses. Later on, of course, Jesus,
like John the Baptist, was arrested and put to death. His despondent
88
HRYCAK
followers also took His body, entombed it, and returned to find that Jesus
had risen; they rejoiced that they had not been abandoned. This narrative
reference reinforces the motif of the prophet's "second coming."
23.
As mentioned above, identity, and in particular, collective identity, were
absent from the terminology of the older collective behavior as well as
resource mobilization paradigms. In the past decade, however, this has
become a critical term in reviews of the literature on social movements.
Thus, a review of the recent work of prominent scholars (see Gamson
1992; Taylor and Whittier 1992; Friedman and McAdam 1992) concludes that collective identity has come to be seen as central to movement
success by a variety of recent approaches, which often now either "emphasize the construction of social movement identities from existing
structured inequalities" or "locate social movement mobilization in existing collective identities associated with social roles that heighten a sense
of grievance or offer a social basis for mobilization" (1992, 16).
24.
A number of influential Western journalists were conducting research on
the threats posed by Ukrainian nationalism while I was conducting this
research. Bramberg's (1991) New York Review of Books article, entitled
"Not So Free At Last," caused quite a stir within the Ukrainian scholarly
community in L'viv as well as the United States while I was conducting
this research. Maryniak's (1993) subsequent report on Ukraine entitled
"Legalised Lawlessness," also offended at least some of those who cooperated with her. By contrast, Ignatieff represented the national strivings
in Ukraine in quite favorable terms relative to other expressions of the
"new nationalism" he covered in his BBC series and analyzed in the
accompanying (1994) book he wrote, although he clearly misunderstood
"Vyvykh," which he reported to be an indication that Western Ukrainian
youth were unconcerned with things European. In an article on
"Vyvykh" published in The Observer in October 1992, Ignatieff wrote
that "The crowd is wearing a wild array of costumes and funny faces,
decked with old Soviet army hats, decorated with the blue and yellow
ribbons of independence; a girl walks by with a toy pistol inside a militia
man's holster; nobody is imitating the West here. They are doing their
own Galician, Carpathian thing."
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Speaking of Surzhyk: Ideologies and Mixed Languages
LAADA BILANIUK
Fervent debates over language have played a central role in the processes of
independence and nationbuilding in Ukraine during and after the fall of the
Soviet system.1 These debates have generally been structured upon the binary
opposition of the Ukrainian language versus the Russian language, and where,
when, and by whom these languages should be used, particularly in official and
educational spheres. While in these debates the categories "Ukrainian" and
"Russian" are used as if they corresponded to discrete, immutable objects, in
practice there is much variation within each language and mixing between the
two. Ideologies that posit ideal national languages and discredit or ignore
variation, change, and mixing have been key in nationbuilding endeavors
worldwide (Anderson 1991, Blommaert and Verschueren 1992). In Ukraine,
mixed and non-standard forms, often referred to as "surzhyk,"2 tend to be
shunned, ridiculed, or treated as taboo since they violate the definition of
"Ukrainian" and "Russian" identities as unmixable. In this paper I trace the
historical and social conditions that have engendered surzhyk, and I examine
the wide range of mixed and non-standard linguistic forms that this term may
refer to. Further, I explore the current ideologies of people in Ukraine regarding
surzhyk. The differences in assumptions and justifications that people of different backgrounds express reveal tensions within Ukrainian society.
The ideological and political factors shaping language use, referred to as
"language ideology," have received increasing attention in recent research in
linguistic anthropology (Friedrich 1989; Kroskrity et al. 1992; Woolard and
Schieffelin 1994). This study of surzhyk is part of a larger research endeavor,
including my dissertation research, that examines the dynamics of language
ideology and nationbuilding in Ukraine (Bilaniuk 1997, 1998a, 1998b). In the
present analysis, I consider data on two levels: macro-level influences on the
dynamic of language status change, including historical, political, and economic trends; and micro-level factors affecting language choice in specific
situations. In much of my discussion I use the categories "Ukrainian" and
"Russian" inasmuch as they are historically and socially salient ideological
constructs; however, I also explore the linguistic practices that blur their
boundaries.
The language situation can be analyzed in terms of a model of diglossia, as
will be discussed in some depth below. However, there are aspects that are
simplified or insufficiently addressed in the diglossic model. I draw on the
writings of Bakhtin in an attempt to account for some of these complexities,
94
BILANIUK
which are especially vivid in a time of social turbulence. I apply Bakhtin's
concept of heteroglossia to pragmatics and language ideology. By language
ideology I mean "words about words"—overt expressions of beliefs about
what language is, should or should not be, and how it relates to identity. I will
also take into consideration evidence of people's implicit language ideology, as
revealed not in the content of their explanations, but in their linguistic behavior.
Comparison of implicit ideologies and overt metalinguistic statements provides
an avenue for exploring power in language.
Ukrainian-Russian Bilingualism and Language Status Change
In the history of the Ukrainian language it is easy to find patterns of diglossia, a
situation where a "High" prestigious language has a different sphere of usage
than a "Low" one (see Ferguson 1959; Fasold 1984, 34-59). 3 Almost invariably, Ukrainian can be said to have been the Low language with respect to the
High languages of the governments which occupied lands primarily inhabited
by Ukrainian speakers (see Shevelov 1987). Many people that I interviewed in
1992 claimed that until recently (and some said even still), Ukrainian was
widely viewed as a limited, unrefined language. It was often called the "peasant
language" or "collective farm language."
In the Soviet period, Russian was favored by most people as the language of
progress and prestige in all spheres of life. But in spite of the dominance of
Russian, many people continued to use Ukrainian, especially in non-urban
settings. Some did not have access to good Russian schooling in their villages.
Even men who learned Russian during their two years of army service often
forgot it, as it fell into disuse when they returned to their village. Many
peasants as well as educated urbanités maintained Ukrainian and had their
children learn it for reasons of sentiment or pride. It was their mother tongue, a
symbol of their ethnic identity, and according to them, it would have been
wrong or unnatural to give it up.
Thus, the Ukrainian language was alive, if not well, and ready to be resuscitated when the Soviet Empire fell and Ukraine embarked on independence. As
part of the nationbuilding process, Ukrainian was declared the official state
language. The Law on Languages of 1989 was intended to spread the use of
Ukrainian in official, educational, and public spheres. It assured the freedom to
use other languages, but it made the study of Ukrainian mandatory.
Even during my year of fieldwork I could see significant changes toward
more widespread Ukrainian usage. Especially after the referendum of December 1991, in which the overwhelming majority of citizens voted for independence and chose a president, Ukrainian could be heard more often on the streets
of Kyiv, and on radio and television. People interviewed also testified that it
was becoming more prestigious. One could see the traces of this transformation
in various road and building signs. Where it was possible, only a few letters
were painted over and modified in order to change a word into Ukrainian from
SPEAKING OF St/ÄZtfWi:
95
Russian, apparently to avoid the economic burden of replacing whole signs.
Graffiti changing Russian words into Ukrainian ones also appeared occasionally on advertising billboards. Official buildings declared their identity in
bilingual plaques that were Ukrainian-English as often as Ukrainian-Russian.
Despite the growing public presence of Ukrainian, Russian had not lost its
high status and authority. In 1992 many Ukrainian citizens were not altogether
sure which language they would call more prestigious. Indeed, reports from
several people who visited Ukraine in 1993-94 indicated that the trend of wider
use of Ukrainian had slowed or reversed back to more Russian usage in the
cities, in reaction to worsening economic conditions. Some people were harassed for speaking Ukrainian while standing in a bread line, and were blamed
for the economic hardships (Assya Humesky and Oleksa Bilaniuk, pers.
comm.). In many contexts, especially urban ones, speaking Ukrainian is a
marker of Ukrainian patriotism, and many people in the mid-1990s associated
the downfall and instability of the economy with Ukraine's independence. The
rise in status of the Ukrainian language that I observed in 1991 and 1992 has
proceeded unevenly, as I observed during fieldwork in 1995. Increasing economic hardship has led some to feel disenchanted with the project of developing Ukrainian indepedence and the related spread of Ukrainian language usage.
Despite the fact that in 1996 the new Constitution solidified the status of
Ukrainian as the only state language, resistance to change and lack of funds
have hampered the spread of Ukrainian in education and other spheres, particularly in eastern Ukraine (Bilaniuk 1997,1998a, 1998b; Jackson 1998).
In any case, there tends to be little ambivalence about which languages lack
prestige altogether: the various non-standard versions of Russian and Ukrainian. One could say that both standard Ukrainian and Russian are now High,
prestigious languages (with an as yet undefined hierarchical relationship between them). Meanwhile, various non-standard, so-called "impure" forms are
Low languages, as there seems to be—at least in Kyiv—a particularly widespread and vehement attention to language purity in the post-independence
period. This is evident in people's attitudes and radio shows that instruct on
proper usage. However, it is important to recognize that throughout their
history, Ukrainian and Russian did not exist simply as "pure" distinct languages.
Standard and Non-standard Ukrainian and Russian Language Forms
Standardization and legitimation of a single language variety were—and still
are—central elements in the homogenizing projects of nationbuilding (Anderson 1991; Blommaert and Verschueren 1992; Steinberg 1987). These processes
must subsume the natural regional and social variation in linguistic forms in a
given area by selecting and elevating a single variety as the "national language." The establishment of a standard language essentially consists in its
codification and legitimation by an authority. The distinction between "Ian-
96
BILANIUK
guages" and "dialects" is aptly summarized in the sociolinguistic adage that "a
language is a dialect that has an army and a navy and an air force." Through
educational and administrative institutions (whose authority is often backed by
military power), a given standard language can become widespread in an area
where there used to be much more linguistic heterogeneity. Constant regulation, reinforced through schooling and the media, is required to maintain basic
linguistic homogeneity. In the absence of such regulation, variation between
the language forms used in different social and geographic groups will tend to
become more pronounced.
Several of my informants in Ukraine complained that during the past few
decades the Ukrainian language was neglected. Meanwhile, much attention
was given to Russian, both in television programs and publications that discussed correct usages. These informants attributed the low status of Ukrainian
to its "shabby state," which was the result of the state's lack of attention. In
addition to neglect, Soviet domination of Ukraine differed from other previous
occupations in its policies of linguistic interference (Kocherga and Kulyk
1994; Shevelov 1990, 220). In addition to what Shevelov calls "classic" methods of linguistic domination, such as banning Ukrainian from public use, and
imposing the state language through education or career opportunities, the
Soviet system, " . . . introduced interference into the structure of the Ukrainian
language by prohibiting certain words, syntactic constructions, grammatical
forms, spelling and Orthoepie standards, while promoting others patterned on
Russian or directly transplanted from Russian" (Shevelov 1987,220). Thus, the
Ukrainian language experienced the pressures of Russian on both a micro- and
macro-scale, on both the linguistic and cultural levels.
The influences of different dominant languages, as well as local varieties of
Ukrainian, were reflected in efforts at standardization that were still under way
at the turn of the century. This is well evidenced in grammars and dictionaries
that were published at the time (Zhovtobriukh 1991, 4-6). Nevertheless, even
in the pre-Soviet and early Soviet periods when Ukraine was divided between
foreign powers, there was general agreement in both eastern and western
Ukrainian regions that the true Ukrainian standard was the language used
by writers in the central Kyiv-Poltava region (Wexler 1974, 70; Zhovtobriukh
1991, 27-28). Taras Shevchenko was particularly influential, and he
is sometimes credited with having given shape to the "real" Ukrainian language. Some people go so far as to say that he is responsible for creating the
Ukrainian nation, and that he is an embodiment of Ukrainian spirit (see, e.g.,
Hojan 1991, 5-8).
Although there may have been some general agreement, there was no single
authorized, institutionally enforced and widespread standard Ukrainian language during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This resulted in
much variation in the language of publications and other public uses of language. In the early twentieth century, Ukrainian newspaper editors criticized
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
97
each other's publications: Kyiv editors accused the papers in L'viv of mixing
the words and sentence structures of other languages (including German and
Polish) into Ukrainian; meanwhile the L'viv editors criticized Kyiv papers for
using a language adapted to the peasantry rather than the intelligentsia
(Chykalenko archives, cited in Shevelov 1989, 40; see also Wexler 1974, 5678). During the years of struggle for independence (1917-1920), when the
Ukrainian press boomed, the uneven and inconsistent language of Ukrainian
publications provided material for jokes deriding the Ukrainian language
(Shevelov 1989, 78, 85).
In addition to language variation due to incomplete standardization, social
pressures have also lead to language mixing. While under foreign rule many
Ukrainians of the upper classes switched to the language of the ruling state,
which likely involved language mixing while they were learning the new
language. Furthermore, Shevelov, who provides unique analysis, reports that in
late nineteenth-century Russian-dominated Ukraine, peasants "were often
ashamed of speaking Ukrainian and, in conversations with persons of the upper
classes, inserted as many Russian words as they could" (1987, 9). I also
observed this phenomenon in 1991, when people from a village background
switched to Russian or mostly Russian speech when dealing with their urban
customers (also observed by Bohdan M. Azhniuk, pers. comm.).4
The phenomenon of non-standard languages that currently exists in
Ukraine, collectively called "surzhyk, " is thus not new. In colloquial usage
surzhyk can refer to any non-standard language, whether it includes features of
a local dialect, or a mixture of standard languages. This term is used by
different people to refer to very disparate phenomena, depending on their
background and linguistic ideology. Those with some knowledge of dialectology may define surzhyk as the incorrect mixing of forms that belong to different linguistic systems; making a distinction between language mixing (surzhyk)
and dialects of a given language. People without knowledge of documented
dialect varieties may evaluate dialect speech as surzhyk, simply because it is
not what they know as the standard. Still others may evaluate their own closeto-standard speech as surzhyk because of insecurity in their own linguistic
knowledge. I will discuss the various linguistic ideologies of people living in
Ukraine in greater depth below, but first I will examine the types of nonstandard linguistic phenomena that can fall under the category of surzhyk. The
analysis covers the various features that may be labeled surzhyk, although not
every native speaker would include all of these features in their own definition.
I follow the folk ideology and use the standard languages as reference points in
analyzing the various non-standard forms. Not all of the phenomena can be put
into clear-cut categories, but I have attempted to systematize them according to
linguistic level and regularity.
98
BILANIUK
Non-Standard Forms on the Phonetic and Phonological Levels
1) Many Ukrainians speak language varieties that mix the phonetic features
of one standard language while speaking primarily the other. Phonemes that are
etymologically related in Ukrainian and Russian, but now have different surface realizations (or even different phonemic representations due to historical
processes), may constitute non-standard pronunciation when etymologically
related phonemes or phonetic output is switched. For example, the vowel
generally transcribed as /y/, written и in Ukrainian and ы in Russian, is articulated further back in the mouth in standard Russian than Ukrainian.
A more complicated situation exists in the case of the etymological velar
/g/. In Russian it is generally pronounced [g] (a voiced velar stop). In Ukrainian
it has (historically) lenited to /h/ [h] (a voiced glottal fricative) in the vast
majority of words, with just a few (historically more recent) lexemes with /g/.
The voiced glottal fricative is absent in contemporary standard Russian (CSR),
except in rare cases such as the interjections [aha] and [hop].5 Thus, Russian
native speakers, and others who learned English through Russian, tend to
pronounce Harvard as [Garvard] and hello as [хэ1:о]. The voiced velar stop [g]
used to be indicated by the separate letter ґ in Ukrainian, which was banned
during Soviet rule.6 Although the elimination of this letter, which was absent
from Russian, made the two languages orthographically more similar, pronunciation has remained divergent. While speaking Russian, many people say
[hod] instead of standard Russian [got] [god, 'year'; rik in Ukrainian], or
[horod] instead of [go'rat]7 [gorod, 'city,' misto in Ukrainian]. This feature is
widespread among Russian speakers in Ukraine, even those who do not know
Ukrainian. I found it particularly consistent in the data from Zaporizhzhja and
Dnipropetroyst This feature is also common in dialects of Southern Russia.
2) Phonological rules of one language may be applied in the other: For
example, the Russian phonological rule "akan'e," where unstressed loi is pronounced as [л] or [ә], may be present in Ukrainian speech. Thus Ukrainian
rozmovljaty, 'to converse' {razgovarivat' in Russian), becomes [razmAvlja'ty].
I found this feature typical of Ukrainian speakers who had lived a long period
of time in Moscow.
Sometimes forms are used that are incorrect according to the rules of either
language. For example, the word 'what' is [S5o] in standard contemporary
Ukrainian (CSU) and [Sto] in CSR. A widespread non-standard form in
Ukraine is [So]—and note that /SĞO/ pronounced according to CSR rules would
give [§':o]. Some people may also pronounce it as [δ'δ'ο], reflecting the influence of standard Russian phonology in the softened sibilants. Yet another form
is [6'to], reflecting a literal reading of the way the Russian word is spelled. The
social significance of the phonological variation in this word is evidenced by
the slang term stokaty, used by some people to refer to speaking Russian, i.e.,
using the standard Russian Sto.
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
99
3) The phonological features of local dialects may be used in speech, marking
it as non-standard. For example, in villages in Volhynia (a northwestern region)
as well as near Kołomyja (a southwestern town), it is still common to hear
people pronouncing CSU /ja/ as [je], and /ca/ as [ć'e]. Thus people produced
[je'bluko] instead of CSU [ja'bluko] 'apple,' [pjet'] instead of [pjaf] 'five,' and
[divc'e'ta] instead of [divca'ta] 'girls.'
Lexemes
1) Words from one language may be used in the other, either consistently or
sporadically—as when someone cannot think of the correct word in a given
language and substitutes a word from the other. This is especially the case
when the Ukrainian and Russian words do not resemble each other at all, and
someone less accustomed to speaking a given language cannot remember a
lexical item. Usually the substituted word will be pronounced according to the
phonetics of the language someone is trying to speak. For example, common
occurrences that I observed were Russian words used while speaking otherwise
standard Ukrainian: stolovaja (cafeteria, pronounced [sUlo'vaja] in standard
Russian) instead of Ukrainian jidal'nja; klubnika (strawberry) instead of Ukrainian polunycja; and ostanovka (bus stop, pronounced [AsUno'fka] in Russian)
instead of Ukrainian zupynlca. Sometimes people alternated between variants in
a conversation, depending on how closely they were monitoring themselves. If
they were not accustomed to speaking standard Ukrainian, they might remember the correct Ukrainian form after having used a Russian substitute; or they
might return to using the more familiar Russian term when speaking quickly,
while not being as conscious of avoiding Russianisms. Some Russian words
may be used in Ukrainian speech so regularly and widely that they might
become legitimized as borrowings acceptable in standard Ukrainian at some
point.
2) Words specific to local dialects are used in otherwise standard speech. (As
mentioned above, dialect forms are not surzhyk in technical linguistic terms,
but people who are not linguists may refer to them as such since they do not
sound standard.) For example, potatoes may be called kartoplja or bul'ba in
standard Ukrainian usage,8 or kartoflja, barabolja, mandyburka, buryska,
krumpli, or other terms, depending on the dialect and the influence of other
languages in that region. The Russian variant kartoshka may also be used.
Sometimes there may be disagreement as to whether or not a form is
standard. For example, Podvesko 1962 lists both hovoryty and balakaty as
legitimate glosses for 'to talk,' but most of my informants argued that the latter
is not standard. Only one woman, from southeastern Ukraine, used balakaty
regularly in her speech, which as a whole was very different from either
Ukrainian or Russian standards.
100
BILANIUK
Syntax
1) Syntactic forms of one language may be used in the other. A frequent
'Russianism' in Ukrainian is the use of the locative Russian form instead of the
instrumental Ukrainian form when saying, for example "The book is written in
English." Knyha napysana na anhlijskij movi might be used instead of CSU
Knyha napysana anhlijs'koju movoju. (CSR is Kniga napisana na anglijskom
jazyke.) The fact that the Russian word for 'language'—jazyk—is masculine,
while the Ukrainian term mova is feminine, frequently causes additional incorrect use of standard forms.
2) Local dialects also have features that deviate from the standard on the
syntactic level. Some people may judge these non-standard features as being
surzhyk. For example, a construction typical of western Ukrainian dialects is
the separation of the reflexive particle s ja from the verb: Ja sja pomyłyla
instead of CSU Ja pomylylasja Ί made a mistake.'
Semantics
Ukrainian and Russian words that are identical or similar can have different
meanings. For example: cas [Ukr. 'time,' Rus. 'hour'], voskresenije [Ukr.
'resurrection,' Rus. 'Sunday; resurrection'], Ukr. nedilja, Rus. nedelja [Ukr.
'Sunday,' Rus. 'week']. In some cases Ukrainian terms have lost possible
meanings which differed from Russian. For example, although dictionaries list
the meaning 'comfortable' for the word vyhidno, people now use the word
exclusively to mean 'profitable, advantageous,' which is the only meaning of
the formally related Russian term vygodno. A similar example is the use of
Ukrainian robyty to mean 'to work.' In standard Ukrainian it means 'to do,' and
'to work' is pracjuvaty. However, under influence of Russian rabotât' 'to
work' there is a lexical shift among some surzhyk speakers for robyty to mean
'to work.'
Regularity vs. Transience
The non-standard features can be used consistently, or only occasionally in
some words or phrases. People may switch between one term and another,
conforming to the terminology used by the person they are speaking with.
Some people may regularly speak a non-standard language with a combination
of features on various linguistic levels. Or, people who only know one of the
two languages well and attempt to speak the other often deviate from the
"pure" standard. It used to be most common for Ukrainian-speaking peasants to
use some Ukrainian words in their attempts to speak Russian when they came
to sell their produce in the city. However, in 1992 more and more urban
Russian speakers were finding it necessary to try to speak Ukrainian, whether
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
101
because of new policies at their place of occupation, or simply because Ukrainian had "become fashionable," as some people explained.9
A Sample o/Surzhyk
Below is an analysis of a brief transcribed speech sample where features of
both languages and local dialect are inextricably intertwined. It is an excerpt
from a taped interview with a woman in her seventies, who has lived and
worked for over 20 years in the city of Zaporizhzhia, but who grew up in a
nearby village. This should give the reader a sense of some of the similarities
and differences between the languages, and give an example of how they can
exist blended in speech. The transcriptions reflect pronunciation, not orthography. 10 The woman is answering my questions about which language she uses
with members of her family.
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
Brat
moj
тпоһэ rabo: ta
Brat
mij
bahato prac'uje
Brat
moj
mnoga rAbotąjat
Brother my
much
works
My brother worL· a lot in the city.
u
v
ν
in
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
Vin
ostajox'ja
Vin
lysajec'a
On
AStAJoca
He
remains
He stays there.
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
to
Pryjiźa
dodomu —
Pryjiżżaje
dodomu —
to
tAgda
Prijezajat
dAmoj —
comes (by vehicle) to home —
then
When he comes home—then already
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
vin
po-rus'ky
nacyna.
vin
po-rosijs'ky
poćynaje.
on
рл-ruski
nacynajat.
he
in Russian
begins.
he begins [speaking] in Russian.
horod'e.
mist'i.
gorad'i.
city.
tam.
tam.
tam.
there.
vze
vze
uźe
already
I then asked about people from villages who live and work in the cities in
general.
102
BILANIUK
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
A
doma
A
dodomu
A
dAmoj
but
to home
But when they come home
pryjiżajut'
pryjiżżajut'
prijeźajut
come
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
vony
vs'ida rozhavarajut'
vony
vse
rozmovl'ajut'
лпі
f s'igda razgAvarivajut
they
always speak
they always speak Ukrainian, yes.
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
A
u
horod'i vze
naöynajut'
nu.
A
v
mist'i vze
poćynajut'
nu.
A
v
gorad'i uze
nacinajut
nu.
but
in
city
already begin
well.
But in the city, they already begin [speaking Russian], well.
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
V
horod'i
V
mist'i
V
gorad'i
in
city
In the city, it was
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
jak
ran'§e bulo
poćut' ukrajinc'i,
jak
ran'ise bulo
poćuty ukrajinc'iv,
kak
ran'śa była
uslyśyt' ukrAJincaf,
how
earlier was
to hear Ukrainians,
when one would hear Ukrainians back then.
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
A ha ha,
starałysja,
da.
A ha ha,
staralysja,
tak.
A ha ha,
stAralis',
da.
unhhuh,
tried(3pl)
yes
Yes, they tried [to speak Russian] there, yes.
po-ukrajins'ky, da.
po-ukrajin's'ky, tak.
рл-ukrAJinski,
da.
Ukrainian,
yes.
jak
ta
az
jak
to
az
как
to
us
how
that
so
somehow awkward
nevdobno
nezrucno
n'iudobna
awkward
da.
tak.
da.
yes.
At this point I ask why, and she explains:
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
Nu,
vydno so
ssela
colovik.
vydno SCO
ssela
colov'ik.
Nu,
v'idna sto
ss'ila
calAv'ek.
well,
visible that
from-village
person.
Well, iif was obvious thaif the Derson was a 'illaeer/Dei
\
Nu,
bulo
bulo
była
was
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
103
My interviewee chuckles after saying this. Perhaps it was awkward for her
to state so plainly that the Ukrainian language was associated with the peasantry, and was out of place in urban settings. As she explains further, young
people did not face the embarrassment of not knowing Russian, since they
acquired Russian proficiency in city schools.
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
A
molod'oz
vse
A
molod '
vse
J\
тә1лс1 'os
fs'igda
but
young people
always
But the young people always studied
vcylas'
vcylas'a
ucites'
studied
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
ν
horod'i
ν
mist'і
ν
gorad'i
in
city
in the city, mostly.
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
Vs'oz
Vsez
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
A
svoju
ony
ne
zabyvaly.
A
svoju
vony
ne
zabuvaly.
zabyval'i.
A
svoj
лп'і
n'i
but
own
they
not
forget
But they did not forget their own [language].
WOM:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
Dodomu
pryjiźaly
Dodomu
pryjiźżaly
prijizal'i
DAmoj
to home
came (3pl)
When they came,home
WOM:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
zbat'kom
doma
zbat'kom
vdoma
SACcom
f'sO
ГЛУПО
domo
with-father
all
even
at home
all the same at home with their father
bol'synstvo
bil'sist'
bal'synstvo
most
na
rus'ke:
perexodyla.
na
rosijs' ky
perexodyla.
ПА
ruskaj
pirixAd'ila.
F's'oz
on
Russian
going over.
allfemphatic]
They all [the young people] switi:hed over to Russi
vse
vse
ravno
rivno
104
WOM.:
UKR.:
RUS.:
GLS.:
ENG.:
BŁANIUK
zmaterju
rozhovaryli
zmatiiju
rozmovl'aly
smat'ir'u
razgAvarivali
with-mother
spoke
[and] with their mother they spoke
pa-svojemu.
po-svojemu.
рл-svojimu.
their own way.
in their own language.
Linguistic Ideology and Perceptions of Language
A wide variety of linguistic forms may be designated by the term surzhyk.
During my fieldwork I frequently heard this term used to challenge someone's
legitimacy, implying that an accent or non-standard grammar were direct evidence of flawed thinking. The labeling of someone's language as surzhyk was
also used to reveal doubts about their ethnic identity or loyalty. But the shibboleth of "standard language" may be judged differently by different ears: what
sounds authentic to one may be tainted to another. Among other things, regional background and education both come into play in shaping people's
judgements.
The model of diglossia presumes that languages can be defined as separate
and hierarchically related (Fasold 1984, 34-59). Even though the model has
been stretched to allow for some overlap or nesting, it inadequately accounts
for the wide range of both stable and transient non-standard linguistic forms.
Furthermore, the status of a given type of language often depends on the
context and how it is interpreted by a given interlocutor; that is, language
ideology plays a key role. Analyzing a situation in terms of diglossia presumes
predetermined clear-cut designations of prestigious High and non-prestigious
Low languages, which are difficult to map onto the contested terrain of linguistic values in Ukraine.
A more adequate explanation of the dynamic existence of language in
Ukraine can be developed from Bakhtin's (1992) view of language as
heteroglossic. Rather than focussing on idealized forms, Bakhtin explores how
the meanings of words and discourses exist between interlocutors, as opposed
to within their minds. Bakhtin describes language as heteroglossic (sometimes
also referred to as "multi-voiced") because each word's meaning contains
traces of previous contexts in which it was used (as it was spoken in different
voices). Heteroglossia is structured by "the (relatively) protracted and socially
meaningful (collective) saturation of language with specific (and consequently
limiting) intentions and accents" (Bakhtin 1992, 293). The degree of saturation
of various languages with authority changes with time and varies across a
population. A single variety may emerge as dominant while another may be
devalued, in which case we can speak of the existence of diglossia (although in
practice, most cases of diglossia are much more complex than the model
allows).
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
105
Following Bakhtin's (1992) argument that word meanings exist between
speakers, the authority of languages is also negotiated between speakers. A
language is legitimate only if it is interpreted as such by a hearer, and a
discourse can be challenged by refusing to accept the legitimacy of the language that carries it.
Judgements of the value of a language and its authority are part of language
ideology.11 Language ideology includes people's overt and implicit beliefs
about what language is, how it relates to identity, and what linguistic forms are
appropriate in which contexts. Such beliefs may be expressed overtly, in statements about the value of a certain language. Ideologies are also implicit in how
people speak in different contexts, and how people react to speakers of given
language varieties. For example, on several occasions people asserted to me
that neither does Yeltsin, Russia's president, speak true Russian, nor could then
Ukrainian president Kravchuk speak pure Ukrainian. Some people denied that
anyone speaks "pure" languages anymore. In their statements I see a reflection
of the corruption they see in other spheres of life. On the other hand, speaking a
version close to standard in a village with a different dominant dialect can be
seen as an oddity—or it can even be ridiculed. (My findings concur with the
several Catalan cases described by Woolard 1985, 744.)
An individual's language ideology is a product of both larger social discourses and personal experiences. The historical status of languages, language
values taught in school, and laws governing official language use affect
people's attitudes and beliefs, and individual experiences may either reinforce
or counter such social ideologies. For example, an encounter with a Russian
speaker who is very supportive of Ukrainian independence may alter
someone's assumptions about links between political identity and language
use. Or, to give another example, eloquent and intelligent remarks made by
someone speaking mixed Ukrainian-Russian language might unseat prejudices
regarding the low value of such language. People's pre-existing language
ideologies may conflict with actual situations that they encounter, and may be
altered in the process.
People's attitudes about language will affect how they speak. For example,
speech can vary depending on how consciously it is being monitored. People
tend to be more conscious of their language in formal situations, or if they feel
they are being evaluated (for example, by a supervisor or interviewer). In such
cases people may try to alter their usual language to what they perceive as
standard. In casual situations with friends, people tend to use non-standard
forms (slang or surzhyk) more freely, although their behavior will also depend
on their interlocutors.
The prevailing hegemonic language ideology in Ukraine posits that language is directly linked to ethnic identity, and that Ukrainian and Russian
languages should exist only in their "pure" separate states. Mixed languages,
and anything that may be categorized as surzhyk, tend to be despised. As a
result, people will avoid speaking a language in which they are not fluent, as
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they may be looked down upon and ridiculed for speaking surzhyk. Despite the
stigma of imperfect speech, people may try to speak a language that they do not
know well because it is required by a situation, or out of politeness. Thus
traditional symbolic statuses may be reversed: educated people may find themselves mixing Russian and Ukrainian in a way that used to be typical of
villagers, while peasants whose dialect is close to standard Ukrainian can
sound prestigious. Such reversals add to a general sense of sociolinguistic
instability.
Linguistic instability is exacerbated by disagreement about some aspects of
what exactly is standard language. This stems from a lack of standardized
education, inconsistencies in dictionaries and grammars, and disagreements
among linguists and politicians. In the absence of a clearly recognized single
linguistic authority, many people use their own beliefs to judge correctness.
The political nature of defining the standard reflects regional, class, generational, and other divisions. I frequently witnessed people criticizing the language of others as a way of challenging their authority and that of their social
group.
Just as the authority of a language can be challenged, so can a language
ideology. As I discuss below, not everyone agrees with the dominant ideology
that language is an essential part of ethnic identity, or that language mixing is
undesirable. Just as words are shaped by the history of their usages, so are
language ideologies. When people speaking different language varieties meet,
their language ideologies inevitably come into contact.
Groups or even individuals with non-dominant attitudes can affect diglossia,
as Bakhtin states:
Various tendencies (artistic and otherwise), circles, journals, particular newspapers, even particular significant artistic works and individual persons are all
capable of stratifying language, in proportion to their social significance; they
are capable of attracting its words and forms into their orbit by means of their
own characteristic intentions and accents, and in so doing to a certain extent
alienating these words and formsfromother tendencies, parties, artistic works
and persons (1992, 290).
In considering "social significance" as it is mentioned in the quote above,
we must note the limitations on people's power in bending language to menbenefit. Wealth and education tend to add the weight of power to a person's
words. To some extent, the constraints are institutional, as argued by Bourdieu
(1991). As is evident in the data I present below, education or lack thereof is
often associated by Ukrainians with given styles of language and "degree of
culturedness." The dominance of language can be reinforced in institutions: for
example, men were forced to learn some Russian—along with obedience—if
they were to survive the harsh system of the Soviet army.12 However, languages lacking institutionalized power can also be significant in the dynamics
of the definition of language and language ideology, as is evident in the data.
For example, some informants had positive associations with non-standard
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
107
languages because they embodied their own specific heritage or sense of
community. I agree with Woolard (1985, 745), who argues that groups usually
seen as passively accepting the order of authority are also creative in responding to it, and capable of opposing it in their solidarity. A language legitimated
by the state may be ridiculed if used by a peasant in the village, if the accepted
language in the village context is different.
Below I examine the degree of acceptance of a dominant linguistic ideology
in my Ukrainian data. The non-dominant discourses that exist alongside it also
will be discussed, in the hopes of uncovering some of the forces at play in the
definition of language, and what it should be, in post-Soviet Ukraine.
Hegemonic and Non-hegemonic Discourses in Ideologies of Language
As mentioned at the outset, the analysis here is based on data from 58 interviews on language use and attitudes that were conducted in Kyiv and
Zaporizhzhia. These included questions on attitudes towards non-standard languages, as well as a variety of topics related to language use, nationality and
background. The questions on non-standard language use were phrased thus:
"What is your attitude towards a person mixing Ukrainian and Russian languages in speech?" "Do you yourself mix these two languages?" "Do you mix
them consciously or not?" Often people also volunteered information on their
language ideology at other points during the interview.
There is a parallel between the construction of a language of power in
Ukraine, and the construction of a powerful—hegemonic—linguistic ideology.
Forming a prestigious unitary language is posed against the forces of myriad
non-standard languages. Likewise, the ideology of one pure language, organically connected with a nation, opposes a wide range of beliefs about language.
In these interviews I found patterns that I plan to explore further in future
research. The interplay of discourses illustrates a metalinguistic level of
heteroglossia, corresponding to Bakhtin's model. I will examine below the
general breakdown of these views, as well as specific discourses, to demonstrate the forces at play in shaping linguistic ideologies.
The discourses around standard and non-standard languages varied greatly
in their focus, but are unified under one word/concept: surzhyk. The views
expressed about what language is—and what it should be—reflect the diversity
of ideologies which may exist at any given point in time. These ideologies are
enacted in conversations and may shift according to context, in reaction to the
ideology of the interlocutor.
A Scientific Research Institute in Kyiv
The first set of interviews consists of 35 people (ages 24 to 62; 14 women and
21 men) at a scientific institute in Kyiv. Most of those interviewed had a higher
education in the physical sciences or engineering, except one administrative
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BILANIUK
worker with a philological degree, and three technicians with specialized secondary education. In a rough subdivision of this sample, twenty-five people
had a negative attitude towards mixing the two languages in speech or to
speaking surzhyk, eight had a neutral or accepting attitude, while two expressed
both negative and accepting views in their statements.
It is apparent that in this urban academic sphere, the dominant discourse is
that of language purity. However, metalinguistic beliefs do not necessarily
correlate with actual uses of language. It was not uncommon for people to mix
languages blatantly (in my hearing), in the very act of telling me that they
thought such mixing was terrible (see Romaine 1989: 112 for discussion of a
similar case involving a Panjabi/English speaker). Some were insecure about
their language usage, while others were simply assertive of their belief in the
necessity of language purity, notwithstanding their own transgressions. This
gives evidence of a hegemonic discourse, to which people subscribe without
consciously re-examining or questioning it. As Woolard (1985, 741) explains:
The test of legitimacy is the extent to which the population that does not
control that [hegemonic] variety acknowledges and endorses its authority, its
correctness, its power to convince, and its right to be obeyed, that is, the
extent to which authority is ceded to those who do control that variety
(Woolard 1985,741).
In supporting the idea of the necessity of one pure language—one which
they themselves do not command—people endorse their own domination.
Gramsci, a principle theorist of hegemony, himself subscribed to the hegemonic discourse of the superiority of a standard language, probably due to his
own experience of the social limitations on those speaking only a non-standard
dialect (1971, 325, 349).
An examination of the various viewpoints covered by my general categorizations of people's language attitudes will elucidate the forces at play in
shaping metalinguistic discourse, both hegemonic and counter-hegemonic.
(Note that the same people may be mentioned more than once if they expressed
more than one viewpoint.)
Of those expressing negative views about mixing languages, five stated
simply that language should be pure, without further explanation. Others provided some justification for their views. Six people mentioned their own poor
language knowledge, as well as that of other people, as the unfortunate cause of
language mixing. Of these, four people included a more neutral factor of
necessity or expedience; they mixed languages in order not to halt their speech,
or not to sound artificial. This last factor—not sounding artificial—indicates
that mixing languages may be acceptable in some contexts, to the extent that it
would be more desirable to use a common word from the other language rather
than use a rarely heard word which belongs to the given standard.
Six other people made a more explicit connection between language, culture, and education. To them, use of non-standard language was evidence of an
illiterate, "low-cultured" person. "Pure," valuable language had to be studied
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
109
and actively cultivated. In this vein, another person described himself as "a
fighter for the purity of languages."
Six people explained their negative evaluation of mixing languages as a
question of aesthetics. They stated that it is qualitatively unaesthetic—ugly and
unpleasant, often expressed as "grating the ear." Three other people based their
argument on a discourse of contamination. They described mixing languages as
degrading, defiling, or disgraceful to both languages involved, something to be
avoided at all costs.
Among the eight people who were neutral about non-standard languages,
there were a few different trends. Three of them believed that mixing is a
necessary stage in the process of learning a language. However, their views
have a negative aspect, for they consider speaking a mixed language to be only
a step toward the ultimate goal of eventually knowing a standard language
well.
One person believed that in a few centuries different languages will all mix
anyway as a result of natural processes. This is related to the views of two
people who saw the variation of languages across borders as natural. One man
(who does not have a philological background) expressed his view thus:
Language is a portrayal—not only as an instrument of communication, but it
is born in the conditions in which a people live—nature, landscape—they
have developed their language. We call it surzhyk . For them it is their native
language. (My translation. As noted below, this seems to be the dominant
linguistic ideology in a working-class neighborhood of Zaporizhzhia.)
The last of those who held more or less neutral views about mixing languages said he occasionally uses surzhyk for its humorous value. Although he
is careful to say that he is not making fun of the people who regularly use this
language, surzhyk in itself can convey jokes that a standard language just
cannot. He describes this joking as a play on the subtleties of expression, and a
non-standard language can be particularly useful in conveying satire and irony
about the current state of affairs. Comedians, writers, and artists are using
surzhyk to tap the power of the non-legitimate language (e.g., see Zabuzhko
1996; Zholdak 1992). By using it in their work, they take it beyond its usual
quotidian context, confronting people, subverting the standards of society.
The two people who expressed conflicting views said that languages should
not be mixed, but they had a sentimental attachment to language varieties that
they identified as mixed. Thus, emotional value for something identified as
one's own can be a factor shaping language discourse. Aspects of people's life
histories (e.g., which language they spoke growing up, in which language they
carried out their studies, etc.) all can have an input in the shaping of their
linguistic ideology.
In summarizing the Kyiv science institute data, we see that the majority/
negative views are comprised mostly of unquestioning beliefs in the necessity
of language purity, although issues of aesthetics, education, and high culture
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are intertwined. People view the "pure" language as something that does not
necessarily come naturally or easily—it must be studied and refined.
Although some people believe that "pure" language may not come naturally, it is considered only natural that people should be differentiated by
education, and that they should strive to a pure ideal. Even some of the more
neutral views on language mixing feed into the discourse of language purity:
they consider mixing only as a step towards learning the standard, something to
be done for expedience.
Some minority viewpoints pulling away from the authority of the dominant
"pure language" theme draw on emotional ties and humor. Others challenge the
dominant discourse more directly, with statements of the normalcy of language
variation. The ideologies that are counter-hegemonic in this academic sphere
can be dominant elsewhere.
Although the various hegemonic and counter-hegemonic linguistic ideologies are presented here as static statements of individuals, we should keep in
mind that they take on life, and are empowered or disempowered in their
interchange and negotiation between people, like the meanings of words for
Bakhtin. The emotional and rational motivations for the linguistic ideologies
discussed are crucial elements that shape linguistic interchanges and bring
linguistic ideologies to life.
Working-class Hospital Patients in Kyiv
The second set of interviews to be examined consists of 15 patients at a Kyiv
hospital that is considered mediocre. It lacks many of the facilities and equipment that other hospitals have, and generally is not as clean. Theoretically,
people are assigned to a hospital according to their place of residence. However, as with many other aspects of Soviet society, occupational privileges and
connections provide access to better facilities. One woman explained that there
are "white hospitals for the white people" and "black hospitals for the black
people"—meaning differences not of race but of privilege.
In this setting I interviewed 15 people (ages 11 to 57; 8 men, 7 women).
Among them were factory and farm workers, electricians, a construction
worker, nurses, a kindergarten teacher, a secretary and some young people still
in school. One young man was trying to start a business venture. The majority
had a specialized secondary technical education, although a few adults had
completed only three years of schooling. No one had a completed higher
education, but one young woman was working on a university degree in
literature by taking evening classes after her regular secretarial job. In contrast
to the science institute, people were grouped here temporarily.
Eight people had negative views about non-standard language. Views similar to those in the science institute are evident here. Some mentioned lack of
education as the unfortunate cause of mixing. Others said that people should
speak whichever language they know best—with the assumption that they must
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
111
know one standard language well, and that mixing only occurs when people
attempt to speak a language they do not know. One man even said that surzhyk
is not language, but a strange, unnatural phenomenon. A discourse of aesthetics
was also present: a few people expressed their belief that both languages
become grotesque or ruined when mixed.
A few people invoked the discourse of the imperative of distinct nationalities. They argued that mixing Ukrainian and Russian is as bad as mixing
English with Italian, or French with English, as if such mixing were obviously
unthinkable. One woman asserted that if there is a national culture, there must
be a pure national language. She complained that it was very difficult to
cultivate Ukrainian as it was denigrated and neglected, and that now hardly
anyone knows the true language, not even linguists or the leaders of the
country. Another man was fatalistic—he blamed the degradation of the national language on the oppressive policies of Russification, which according to
him "took everyone in the sweep of one scythe." He explained that the negative
view of mixing languages is not so much his, as that of his society, but that he
was powerless against it.
In contrast, one woman (who actually resides in an industrial city in the
easternmost region of Ukraine13), was very positive about her own (very nonstandard) language. She said that it was the language of her parents, the
language she grew up with. Although it had features of both Ukrainian, Russian, and local dialect, she asserted that her language was "just plain Ukrainian
and that's all." She believed that Ukrainian should be the major language in
Ukraine, but criticized the Ukrainian language used in the mass media and in
government for having an accent, "being drawn out," and using strange words.
Six other people held neutral or accepting views on the issue. Some said
they don't pay attention to it, or that mixing is just a habit they picked up, or
that it is expedient to use whichever word comes to mind.
Although the sample is small, one still sees that the ideology of language
purity is not as dominant in such a cohort as it was in the more academic sphere
discussed above. Eight people viewed language mixing negatively, while seven
were more accepting or positive about it.
A Working-class Residential Area in Zaporizhzhia
The last set of interviews consists of eight people (ages 29 to 73; 3 women, 5
men). Among them were electricians, school teachers, and factory workers. In
sharp contrast to the samples discussed above, all but one of the respondents
had neutral or accepting views on mixed language. Their language ideology
seemed to be based more on their environment and social circumstances (which
echoes a view expressed by one man in the Kyiv institute), than the imperative
of language purity.
Zaporizhzhia is an industrial city that was built up around the construction
of a hydro-electric station on the Dnipro river. Many people from other repub-
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lies came to work on the construction, and later stayed on to work in the
numerous factories. Although there used to be more Ukrainian schools, where
non-Ukrainians would learn the language, now the city's population is primarily Russian speaking. One person explained that although about sixty percent
of the nearly one million residents are Ukrainian, until recently there were only
two Ukrainian schools in the city.14
The Russian language widely spoken in Zaporizhzhia blends in Ukrainian
words and has a strong Ukraiman accent. People who spent more of their life in
villages tended to speak a variety with a stronger Ukrainian component. All in
all, I was told that it simply is accepted that everyone speaks a mixed language.
It is a way of life. Some explained that this language is not fixed, but that
people adjust to their milieu: for example, the nurses who come from a village
to work in the city try to use some Russian, while those around them will use a
more Ukrainian variety to make themselves intelligible. This is usually not a
conscious process. One respondent argued that basically there is not such a
sharp division between the two languages—everyone knows elements of both
languages, and uses them as they see fit. As one man explained, even some of
the periodicals that are published in the city included articles in both languages
(although relatively standard forms of each), reflecting the population.
Some of those who held neutral views did think that standard Ukrainian
should become more widespread in the future, but only one man actually
expressed a negative attitude toward mixing. According to him it is a shortcoming resulting from the policies of Russification. His views also reveal another
discourse—that of language and identity. He admits that he himself does not
speak a pure language, but says, "I can't just not be surzhyk—that is what I
am." It would take time to change, he says, although it is something that should
be done, at least by future generations.
The connection between language and identity was a theme prominent in
responses to other questions in the interview. For example, several people
stated that a language they did not know was their native language, because it
corresponded to their national identity. The discourse of "pure," distinctive
languages also related to the concept of the necessity of distinct nationalities.
An ideology accepting mixed languages could likewise be indicative of an
acceptance of mixed national identities, but not necessarily. As mentioned
above, some of the people who thought mixed languages were normal nevertheless believed that standard Ukrainian should once again become dominant.
Conclusions
The regions that now comprise Ukraine have had a long history of domination
by other states, during which the Ukrainian language was devalued with respect to the languages of the ruling powers. Under Soviet rule, state policies
supported the reputation of Russian as the language of progress and prestige, at
the expense of the development of the Ukrainian language. Even to this day
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
113
some people view Ukrainian as a peasant language unfit for higher cultural or
scientific pursuits. However, during my research stay from October 1991 to
August 1992, the status of Ukrainian was rising, due to the efforts of the
government of newly independent Ukraine. This elevation of status has proceeded unevenly, with marked regional differentiation (see Bilaniuk 1997,
1998a, 1998b).
In studying the relative statuses of Ukrainian and Russian, it is important to
recognize that they did not exist simply as separate and distinct languages.
Select language varieties were codified and institutionalized as distinct state
languages in the process of nationbuilding. In both Ukraine and Russia, some
of the dialect variation that existed prior to efforts at standardization still exists.
Also, other state languages that were dominant, especially Russian, have had a
great influence on language varieties spoken in Ukraine. There exist many
linguistic forms that may be analyzed as mixtures of two standard languages.
The mixing may either be consistent or occasional. Mixed and nonstandard
languages in Ukraine, collectively labeled surzhyk, generally have a low status
and lack any institutionalized power.
The power of a given language variety depends on the context in which it is
used. People's perceptions of what is standard, and what kind of language is
appropriate in which context, vary. People tend to alter their linguistic behavior
in accordance with their linguistic ideology, which includes beliefs about what
language is and should or should not be. This ideology is enacted and may be
transformed in the process of linguistic interaction. Thus, Bakhtin's model of
language as heteroglossic (multivoiced) and dialogic can be applied on the
metalinguistic level. Following Bakhtin's argument that word meanings are
created between interlocutors, I argue that language ideologies and, by extension, identities are likewise interstitial, constructed between people. The data
presented show various ideologies that necessarily come into play in an interaction, during which they may be transformed in response to the linguistic
behavior (and by implication, language ideology) of interlocutors. In this time
of social change in Ukraine, although the state endorses a specific language
ideology (supporting the wider spread of a standard Ukrainian), the diversity of
people's beliefs about language is great. Different language ideologies are
dominant, depending on the social and geographic context.
In the interview data presented, what people say about language does not
necessarily correlate to their actual uses of language. Informants often mixed
languages in the very act of telling me that they disapproved of such mixing.
Some were insecure about their language usage, but others were simply assertive of their belief in the necessity of language purity, notwithstanding their
own transgressions. In supporting the idea of the necessity of one pure language—one which they themselves do not command—these people may endorse their own disempowerment. These observations provide information
about a specific facet of language ideology—that which is implicit in behavior.
Study of the correlations—or lack thereof—between language use and linguis-
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tic ideologies provides a fruitful avenue for understanding the dynamics of
power in nationbuilding. The study of language ideologies also sheds light on
the development of social allegiances and conflicts as people align themselves
with different visions of what their country's future holds.
NOTES
1.
Some of the material in this article was presented at the American
Anthropological Association meetings in Washington DC, Nov. 17-21,
1993. This article is based on work supported by a National Science
Foundation Graduate Fellowship and by a grant from the International
Research & Exchanges Board (IREX), with funds provided by the National Endowment for the Humanities, the United States Information
Agency, and the US Department of State. None of these organizations is
responsible for the views expressed. My thanks are also due to the
numerous people in Ukraine who participated and assisted in my research, in particular Viktor M. Brytsyn and Bohdan M. Azhniuk of the
Kyiv Institute of Ukrainian Language. I am also indebted to many people
for their insightful comments on earlier versions of this paper: Ben
Fitzhugh, Assya Humesky, Brace Mannheim, the University of Michigan Linguistic Anthropology Lab Group, and the participants of the
Social Science Research Council 3rd Annual Workshop for
Underrepresented Fields in Soviet Studies at Stanford University (June
27-July 3, 1993). Special thanks to Robert De Lossa for his extensive
editorial comments. Any shortcomings of this paper are my own responsibility.
2.
Podvesko 1962 defines the word's meaning as "wheat mixed with rye,"
and also lists a figurative meaning of "mixture, medley." The latter
figurative meaning is the primary meaning in Ukraine today. A parallel
term exists in Belarusian, referring to mixtures of Belarusian with Russian: "triasianka," which originally meant "a mixture of hay and straw"
(Curt Woolhiser, pers. comm.).
3.
For a more detailed examination of diglossia and its changing structure in
Ukraine, see Bilaniuk 1993.
4.
See Bilaniuk (1993, 85-86) for a detailed description of one case where a
peasant woman switched back and forth from close-to-standard Ukrainian to 'broken' Russian, influenced by factors that caused her evaluation
of the identity of her customers to change.
5.
According to the pronunciation rules in Ozhegov (1986, 13).
SPEAKING OF SURZHYK
115
6.
The distinct Ukrainian letter 'r" has recently been reinstituted, although
its usage in Ukraine is still limited.
7.
Please note that in this section examining non-standard language forms,
transliteration of Russian words represents their pronunciation, not their
orthography.
8.
According to Podvesko 1962.
9.
See Bilaniuk (1993) for a more detailed examination of factors governing
language choice.
10.
The woman's words are indicated by "WOM.:," and the standard Ukrainian and Russian phonetic forms are indicated by "UKR.:" and "RUS.:."
"GLS.:" gives a word by word gloss in English, and an English translation follows "ENG.:." Notation is modified from IPA standards. Stress is
not indicated.
11.
See Woolard and Schief fein 1994 for a survey of recent approaches to
language ideology.
12.
Maj. General Kostiantyn Morozov (Ukrainian Armed Forces, ret.), the
first Minister of Defense of independent Ukraine, discusses this in detail
in a series of interviews conducted at the Ukrainian Research Institute at
Harvard University in spring 1994.
13.
Under Soviet rule, eastern industrial cities in Ukraine experienced much
immigration of workers from Russia and other republics. Language in
these regions has also had a longer history of Russian influence than in
western Ukraine. The dialects of this area were originally closer to
Russian dialects because of their place in the dialect continuum that
existed across borders. This continuum still exists to some extent, but has
largely been effaced by linguistic standardization efforts.
14.
See Jackson 1998 for a case study of language politics in Zaporizhzhia.
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movoznavstva (1918-1941). Kyiv.
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"Brothers, We Are All of Cossack Stock":
The Cossack Campaign in Ukrainian Newpapers
on the Eve of Independence
KAREL С BERKHOFF
There exists a tendency in the Western world to make ironic and dissuasive
comments about the way former Soviet republics other than the Russian
Federation understand the past. While hardly surprising—all relative latecomers
in the process of nationality-building have to live with unsympathetic remarks
by pioneers (Löfgren 1989,9)1—this situation suggests that we take a close look
at the treatment in one of these countries of a historical theme, especially one
with strong popular resonance. The present study focuses on the treatment of the
Cossacks in Ukraine in republican newpapers on the eve of Ukrainian
independence.
This article aims to answer several questions about Cossack-related publications in the large-circulation Ukrainian newspapers. How patriotic was this
"Cossack campaign": did it present the Cossack past, and related current
events, as something relevant to the whole republic, or were certain regions left
out? Which features of the Cossacks and Cossack-related current events were
emphasized, which ones evaded? Finally, how can the nature of the campaign
be explained? The period under question is the last year and a half of the
existence of the Ukrainian Soviet republic, from 16 July 1990, when the
republican Supreme Soviet declared state sovereignty, to 1 December 1991,
when more than 90 percent of the voters in a referendum supported Ukrainian
independence. The use of this last historic date does not mean to imply that the
impact of the Cossack campaign will be investigated per se.2
The basic sources for this study were the republican daily and weekly
newspapers with a circulation of 300,000 or more that were available to the
author. Ukrainian-language publications included: Sil's'ki visti (Village News,
2.4 million); Robitnycha hazeta/Rabochaia gazeta (Workers' Newspaper, published in Ukrainian and Russian editions, 447,000, decreasing to 317,000 in
late 1991); Molod' Ukrainy (Youth of Ukraine, 670,000); and Radians'ka
Ukraina (Soviet Ukraine, 300,000). Russian-language papers included: Pravda
Ukrainy (317,000) and Komsomol'skoe znamia (The Banner of the Komsomol,
weekly, 1 million).3
This sizable corpus has been approached in two different ways. First, related
to the initial research question, I focused on distinct regions of Ukraine, using a
grouping of oblasts (districts) proposed by Roman Szporluk (1975, 202).4
These six regions are: the west (Volhynia, Rivne, L'viv, Ternopil', IvanoFrankivsTc, Transcarpathia, Chernivtsi); the Dnipro region (Kirovohrad,
120
BERKHOFF
Dnipropetrovsic, Zaporizhzhia); the central west (Zhytomyr, Kyiv, Chernihiv,
Khmernytsicyi, Vinnytsia, Cherkasy); the northeast (Sumy, Poltava, Kharkiv);
the Donbas (Donetsic, LuhansTi); and the south (Odesa, Mykolaïv, Kherson,
and Crimea).
All articles were thereupon studied collectively for aspects of the Ukrainian
Cossack past which are less obviously tied to a particular region, such as the
Pereiaslav Agreement of 1654 and Hetman Mazepa. This section includes
analysis of those aspects which the newspapers did not publicize.
It was generally accepted in the nineteenth century that nationalities could
be compared to organisms. It was thought that one could say precisely when a
full-fledged nationality had come into being. Today, scholars of nationalism—
and this author agrees—are of the opinion that one cannot establish precisely
when a nationality has been fully formed: nationality-building is a process, not
an occurrence. Most now argue that nationality is imagined. Like most other
communities, nationalities exist primarily in the minds of people. A nationality
is a nationally conscious community, the largest group of people who believe
that they are ancestrally related. History is of crucial importance: no nationality
can exist without historical myths—coherent, strongly held beliefs about national identity which can be true or false. Subversion of these constitutive
myths can stop and even reverse the process of nationality-building (Connor
1991; Anderson 1991; Armstrong 1982, 292-93; Hobsbawm 1983, 1-14;
Gellner 1983).5
How was Cossack history treated in Ukraine before the relaxation of censorship in the late 1980s? Under Stalin, Ukrainian national interpretations of the
Cossacks and Ukrainian national historiography as a whole, which had gained
ground in the 1920s, were suppressed and replaced by a Russocentric Soviet
historiography which obscured past differences between Ukraine and Russia
(Velychenko 1993,21-26,210). After Stalin's death, this was formalized in the
CPSU "Theses" proclaimed on the occasion of the 300th anniversary of the
Pereiaslav Agreement, concluded in 1654 between the Ukrainian hetman
Bohdan KhmernytsTcyi and the Russian tsar Aleksei Mikhailovich. Ukrainians
were obliged to consider this agreement the result of their ancestors' desire to
be forever "reunited" with Russia. At the same time, Hetman Ivan Mazepa,
who had joined Sweden against Tsar Peter I, was officially denounced as a
traitor (Rudnytsky 1982; Velychenko 1992).6 This suppression of alternative
interpretations of the Cossacks was an attempt to stop and reverse Ukrainian
nationality-building (Sysyn 1991, 850-53).
The ideological constraints on historiography were loosened somewhat under Perro Shelest, the first secretary of the Communist Party of Ukraine (CPU)
from 1963 to 1972 (Lüdemann 1988, 308-309; Myhul 1973, 130-36;
Velychenko 1993, 167-68). This came to an end, however, when Shelest was
ousted from his position and publicly condemned for Our Soviet Ukraine, his
patriotic book, which included extensive praise of the Cossacks. Behind closed
doors, top CPSU ideologue M. I. Suslov assured him that "those Cossacks of
THE COSSACK CAMPAIGN
121
yours are an archaism!" (Tillett 1975; Shelest 1989, 94). Except for reiteration
of the party line on Pereiaslav (Solchanyk 1983, 18), the Cossack theme
became again defacto untouchable.
In the late 1980s independent cultural associations emerged in Ukraine, as
elsewhere in the Soviet Union. These began to look at historical topics such as
the Cossacks and wrote about them in uncensored publications (Slovo 1990).
At the same time, the first articles in years on the Cossacks appeared in the
CPU press (Mytsyk 1990, 4).7 Soon, the first archeological expedition to the
area of the Zaporozhian Sich also took place, headed by the historian Olena
Apanovych (Sierikov 1991, 11). The Sich was the general name for several
fortified military centers in Zaporizhzhia, the Cossack land along the lower
Dnipro, from the mid-sixteenth century to 1775. It represented a military force
to be reckoned with for the Ottoman Empire, Muscovy, and the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth—such as when, in the early eighteenth century, the
Sich cancelled Muscovite protection and sided with Mazepa and his Cossack
state (the Hetmanate, which dated back to KhmernytsTcyi). The Sich aspired to
defend Orthodox Christianity and was for most of its existence an egalitarian
society. For all these reasons, there exists a vibrant folkloric tradition glorifying
the Sich and the Zaporozhians.
By 1990 the attitude of the CPU leadership toward historiography and the
Cossacks in particular showed signs of changing, presumably because of the
popularity of the Cossack theme. On 16 July 1990 the Ukrainian Supreme
Soviet (Verkhovna Rada), three-quarters of which consisted of anti-democratic
CPU members, issued a declaration of state sovereignty which, among other
things, contained a commitment to "the national and cultural rebirth of the
Ukrainian people and its historical consciousness and traditions" (PU 17 July
1990,1 ; Mihalisko 1990). Public attention was particularly aroused by a debate
in the Supreme Soviet about gold reserves which Pavlo Polubotok, a hetman
who was imprisoned by Tsar Peter I, was believed to have deposited in the
Bank of England. Responding to questioning on 20 July 1990, people's deputy
Volodymyr IavorivsTcyi said the Ukrainian people could lay claim to "an
enormous amount of money." The Ukrainian government and the Bank of
England started a search for documents about the alleged gold transfer, but
eventually both declared that they had not found them. Meanwhile, many a
Ukrainian thought about what to do with £300,000, each Ukrainian's estimated
share of the Cossack treasure (RH 28 July 1990, 3; PU 5 August 1990, 3; RH
18 August 1990, 3; KZ 28 June 1991, 7; Ukrainian Weekly 5 August 1990, 3).
Early in August 1990, the Supreme Soviet issued a statement on the occasion of the "Days of Cossack Glory" in the oblasts of Dnipropetrovslc and
Zaporizhzhia (see below, pp. 123-125). These were to be held there in commemoration of "five hundred years of Ukrainian Cossacks." The document was
remarkable for its blend of patriotism and nationalism.
Now . . . that our people is beginning to realize that it is a great European
people [narod] with its own history and it own heroic past, we consider the
122
BERKHOFF
Zaporozhian Sich one of the most important stages in the formation of Ukrainian statehood....
The commemoration offivehundred years of Ukrainian Cossacks [kozatstvo]
is of great importance for the public life of the republic and the rebirth of the
historical memory of the people of Ukraine [naród Ukrainy]. The Supreme
Soviet of the Ukrainian SSR calls upon all citizens of the republic to proudly
pay honor to this distinguished page of our history, and expresses its conviction that celebration of this glorious jubilee will serve the cause of consolidation [konsolidatsiia] of the people of Ukraine in the name of its future as well
as the socio-economic and spiritual prosperity of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic (RU 5 August 1990,1, 3).
These declarations from the floor of the Supreme Soviet in the summer of
1990 indicated that the CPU was changing its stance on Ukrainian nationalism.
The change resulted in a veritable Cossack campaign in the mass-circulation
republican newspapers, which still were firmly under the party's control
(Nahaylo 1992, II). 8 First, as indicated above, the focus below will be on
coverage of specific regions.
In the western part of the republic, honoring the Cossack past in public had
begun already in June 1989. Young members of Rukh, the Popular Movement
of Ukraine for Perestroika, organized a commemoration of the battle of
Berestechko (1651), in which Zaporozhian Cossacks had fought to the last man
against the Poles. Thousands of people gathered on the former battlefield in
Rivne Oblast (Kolomayets 1991, 3).9 In 1990 the mass media showed interest
in the battle of Berestechko. They mentioned the fact that it had been bigger
than the battles of Poltava and Borodino. The CPU newspaper Radians'ka
Ukraina called for state support of the local museum, while its Russianlanguage counterpart Pravda Ukrainy, in an apparent effort to include the
Russian people in the memory of Berestechko, said recent excavations on the
site indicated that Russian strel'tsy and Don Cossacks had also fought there,
alongside the Ukrainians (RH 20 June 1990, 4; PU 25 July 1990, 4; RU 8
August 1990,4).10
In 1991 the Central Committee of the CPU announced that the battle of
Berestechko was "a symbol of the valor and heroism of the Ukrainian people in
its struggle for national liberation" (RH 4 June 1991, 1-2). Leonid Kravchuk,
who had become chairman of the Presidium of the Ukrainian Supreme Soviet
in July 1990 and had soon started presenting himself as a national leader,
delivered a speech at the commemoration in June 1991. It was widely reported.
The former communist ideologue took a clearly nationalist stand:
We are standing on sacred soil, and must ask ourselves: For what did our
glorious forefathers, the sons of Ukraine, lay down their lives? For the freedom and independence of the Motherland.... This page of our history reminds us that victory is possible when we are together, when our people acts
as a united collective. Only when we stand united, will we be able to defend
123
our freedom, to build a sovereign state, and to face the world as a mighty
people, and not as a conglomerate of regions and ethnic groups....
Remembrance of the Cossacks and Ukrainian peasants calls on us not to lose
historical optimism in hard times.... These days this thought is of the utmost
importance to us. Now that we have taken the road to real sovereignty, we
have no right to deviatefromit. That is how great is the responsibility towards
those who believed in this holy cause (PU 20 June 1991,1;RUIS June 1991,
3; SV18 June 1991,4; KZ18 June 1991,1).11
Two newspapers mentioned the fact that Kravchuk, himself a native of
Rivne Oblast, was first met by anti-communist catcalls, which were put to an
end by Patriarch Mstyslav of the Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Church
(RH 18 June 1991, 1; MU 18 June 1991, I). 1 2 There also was some concern
about militarization of the event. Radians'ka Ukraina condemned attempts by
unofficial youth organizations to parade on the field, because "passion for the
military side of the matter can be dangerous in a politicized society" (RU 15
June 1991, 7).
The battle of Berestechko is not the only example of the Cossack past in the
western region. In 1621 Hetman Petro Sahaidachnyi and his army saved a
Polish army from defeat by the Ottomans at Khotyn, currently located in
Chernivtsi Oblast. In October 1990 a commemoration of this battle took place,
but only one newspaper mentioned it (RU 3 November 1990, 3). The next year
no commemorative meetings were reported, but Olena Apanovych and her
colleague V. Demochko published articles that asserted that 370 years ago all
of Europe had marvelled at the Cossacks' feat at Khotyn against the "mortal
danger of genocide" represented by the Ottomans (RH 2 October 1991, 1;
Apanovych 1991). Incidentally, neither of these referred to the conflicting
statements made by the Romanian and Ukrainian parliaments in the summer of
1991 about the legitimacy of the Chernivtsi region as part of the Ukrainian
republic (Socor 1991).13
Finally, Galicia (the oblasts of L'viv, Ternopil', and Ivano-FrankivsTc) was
linked to the Zaporozhian past. A pedagogue, Roman Holovyn, wrote an article
in Molod' Ukrainy to prove that Galicia made "a substantial contribution to the
power of the Zaporozhian Sich and to the history of Ukraine." Hetmans such as
Sahaidachnyi had been born there. An allegedly Galician wife of Sultan
Suleiman II had forestalled Ottoman attacks against Ukrainians. (N.B., this was
the only instance of a woman from the past in the media campaign.) Above all,
because his father was born in Galicia, because many Galicians joined him, and
because he received his education in L'viv, "the person of Kłuneliiytslcyi in
particular unites Galicia with the Dnipro region in a single, indivisible state—
Ukraine" (MU 10 October 1991,4). 14
The heavily industrialized Dnipro oblasts of Zaporizhzhia and
DnipropetnwsTc saw the biggest celebrations of Cossack heritage, which were
called the "Days of Cossack Glory." Hundreds of thousands of people, from
124
BERKHOFF
many parts of the republic, gathered in Nikopol' raion, on the island of
Khortytsia, and in the city of Zaporizhzhia. The location was important: the
Sich had been situated along the lower Dnipro, but with industrialization, an
influx of Russian settlers, and russification of the native Ukrainian population,
the area seemed to have lost any link to the Cossack past. In 1990 the event was
organized by Galician and Kyivan Rukh activists, who had been contacted by
local chapters of the organization. Rukh managed to turn the occasion into a
national event, despite what observers have called scare campaigns and obstruction by local authorities (Sysyn 1991, 858; Ukrainian Weekly 24 February
1991,4; Plokhy 1994, 159).
What matters to this study is that this organizational background was not
reported in the newspapers under consideration. One finds only an interview at
a late stage with the party secretary of Zaporizhzhia Oblast, who denies that the
area will be invaded by aggressive nationalists from Galicia (Vorobiov 1990).
Vice-minister of culture Valentyna Vrubliovsica was concise about the purpose
of the event: "We want it to be not only a celebration of an important date, but
also a new incentive to Ukrainian national spirituality" (PU 1 August 1990,4).
Pravda Ukrainy agreed: "We are in great need of this kind of history lessons,
which do not simply convey facts and dates, but also emotionality
[emotsional'nyi zariad], popular spirit, pride with our past, and discovery of
our roots" (PU 8 August 1990, 4). Radians'ka Ukrai'na's coverage had an
undertone of resentment about the suppression both of the Sich itself and of its
memory by the Russian tsars and Soviet leaders (RU 21 July 1990,4).
Besides the statement cited above from the Supreme Soviet of August 1990,
the media also quoted Ivan Pliushch, the body's vice-chairman. At the opening
of the Days of Cossack Glory on 4 August, Pliushch stressed the Cossacks'
topicality. In his view, current concerns of the Ukrainian people, building of a
state ruled by law and promotion of Ukrainian culture and language, had also
been important to the Zaporozhian Cossacks. He called upon Ukrainians to
"utilize" this heritage (RU 5 August 1990, \;RHanàPUl
August 1990, I). 15
The fact that Karl Marx had called the Sich a "Christian Cossack republic" was
duly noted (see the illustration opposite), and there was some attention to its
multi-ethnic composition (RH3 August 1990,1; RU 7 August 1990,3). Pravda
Ukrainy claimed that the Sich had been Europe's first democratic republic.
"Scholars still need to analyze and describe the Cossack phenomenon in detail,
but it is already clear that at that time, the Ukrainians were the only people in
Europe which was for the most part (for two-thirds [of the population]) independent" (PU 31 July 1990, 4). Like Pliushch, historians pointed out the
positive political lessons of the Sich. Olena Apanovych found the most: Ukrainians in the Sich had possessed an army, had paid close attention to agriculture,
and, above all, had been freedom-loving and brotherly (RH16 August 1990, 2;
Mykhailo BraichevsTcyi in RH 16 August 1990, 2). Things clearly were being
exaggerated. While the level of literacy and education among the Cossacks was
indeed remarkable, the Sich never was a state or a democracy ruled by law
125
V «Хронологічних виписках* 1С Маркса Запорізька Січ названі
«християнською козацькою республікою».
Карл Мвркс: і
мшої »«нмвдив! сі
М м н в н т Л, АРУТЮНЯНЦА. іуяешиюм .П*рц...
"The Chronological Excerpts of К. Marx call the Zaporozhian Sich a 'Christian Cossack Republic.'" Marx is saying, "Congratulations on the 5OOth
anniversary of your national glory!" From RU 5 August 1990,1.
(Subtelny 1988, 109-110, 152-53, 175-76). But Apanovych had every reason
to say that the celebration made a very important contribution to Ukrainian
nationality-building.
The theme of national unity through remembrance of free and brotherly
Cossacks was repeated in 1991. Ivan Kuras, a member of the Academy of
Sciences of Ukraine and one of the organizers of a conference about the
Cossacks held in Kyiv and Dnipropetrovsic, said that they were "a source of
traditions common to all of us." The lesson he derived was that "political
disagreement must step aside for an indivisible, humanistic esteem
[zahal'noliuds'kaposhana] for our common future" (RU 14 May 1991, I). 1 6 V.
Dem'ianov, head of the committee coordinating all Sich commemorations in
the years 1990-1995, was quoted as calling the Cossacks "a unique phenomenon of all times and places.... At a time of medieval violence and persecution, right here in Zaporizhzhia burned a fire of freedom and independence"
(RH 20 February 1991,4).
That year, the festivities in Dnipro Ukraine took place under the nationalist
slogan "Brothers, We Are All of Cossack Stock" (Vsi my, brattia, kozats'koho
rodu). According to press reports in June 1991, thousands witnessed theatrical
126
BERKHOFF
battle scenes and solemn presentations of earth from places like Berestechko.
People in Cossack costumes pledged to serve society rather than the individual.
As in Repin's famous painting, these Cossacks also wrote a humorous letter to
the "sultan," Ukraine's ethnically Russian prime minister Vitol'd Fokin. (Its
contents were not reported.) CPU leader Stanislav Hurenko was present, and so
was Kravchuk, who received a hetman's mace. As in Berestechko later that
month, he gave a speech. After saying that words carry a special meaning when
spoken on Khortytsia, Kravchuk assured his audience that the Supreme Soviet
would not let its historical opportunity pass and would remain on the road to
sovereignty (RH 11 June 1991, 1-2).17
Ukraine's central west, by composition ethnically Ukrainian, was neither as
nationally conscious as most western oblasts, nor as assertive for social and
economic reasons as the industrial east (Chornovil 1991, 10). In order to
familiarize these people with Ukrainian nationalism, including the Cossack
past, young Ukrainians, many of them from Ukrainian societies based in Moscow, initiated a popularization tour in 1989. In 1990 this tour through towns
and villages, called Dzvin (Bell), gained publicity, but it was decidedly unfavorable. One reads that some of the participants, dressed as the Sich Riflemen
of early twentieth-century Galicia, scared old women in the city of Kaniv,
Cherkasy (who screamed, "The Germans!") and were chased away by
Kanivites unfamiliar with the uniforms (PU 31 August 1990, 3). Pravda
Ukrainy reprinted an indignant article from the Chernihiv Oblast newspaper
which accused Dzvin '90 of inciting to violence against Russians and the Soviet
system (PU 26 July 1990,1).18
Robitnycha hazeta gave an account of Cossack festivities in KhmeinytsTcyi
Oblast. These focused on the battle of Pyliavtsi of 1648, where
Khmernytsicyi's army defeated a Polish one. A memorial plate with the text
"To the Cossack and Zaporozhian Warriors, Freedom Fighters of Ukraine" was
installed on the former battlefield in the presence of the oblast authorities. The
report by the Ukrainian press agency Ukrinform claimed that because of battles
such as the one at Pyliavtsi, "almost all of Ukraine became free" (RH 26
September 1990, 3).
In 1991 the central west saw "In the Footsteps of the Cossacks"
(Kozats'kymy shliakhamy): tours organized by Rukh, Cossack companies, the
Ukrainian Language Society, and other citizen groups. They received some
favorable publicity. The main organizer, Viktor Kulynych, was quoted about
the aims of the tours: gathering information about the state of the ecology and
cultural sites, popularization of Ukrainian Cossack history and the idea of
Ukrainian independence (this was before the declaration of independence of 24
August), and, in general, "a rebirth of the national consciousness and pride of
the Ukrainian people" (MU 12 July 1991, 1; SV14 August 1991, 3).19
Readers of Molod' Ukrainy were treated to an extensive description of one
such tour in Chernihiv Oblast in the summer of 1991. Apparently, local authorities had announced that the "Banderites," followers of the mid-twentieth-
127
century western Ukrainian nationalist Stepan Bandera, were coming. Nevertheless, according to Vasyl' Chepurnyi, a participant and author of the report, the
visitors often were welcomed, particularly in the countryside. In the oblast
capital, many locals chose to become Cossacks and made an oath of allegiance
to Ukraine—while a woman protested loudly that "they don't want to be with
Russia, but they're all drunk!" (MU 7 September 1991, 3-4).
The tour made a stop in Baturyn, where a two-day Cossack celebration and
conference called "Baturyn, Hetman Capital of Ukraine" was in progress.
Molod' Ukrainy reported on it, noting that its participants discussed how Tsar
Peter's army had destroyed Mazepa's city and killed its Cossack and nonCossack inhabitants (in 1708). Volodymyr Serhiichuk, a specialist in Ukrainian
Cossack history at Kyiv State University, wrote that the Baturyn massacre
proved that Peter I had a burning hatred of everything Ukrainian. The writer
Roman Ivanychuk was quoted as drawing a lesson from the tragedy. Although
the killing of the people of Baturyn had been an act of "unprecedented cruelty,"
it called "not for revenge, but for understanding of the truth [istyna] that
Ukraine must, at last, live on her own" (MU 24 July 1991, 3; MU 25 July 1991,
1; MU 1 February 1991, 2-3; Subtelny 1988, 164). Other newspapers ignored
the activities in Baturyn, however. The main—if not only—reason may have
been a fear of inflaming passion against Russians. This is suggested by the fact
that one newspaper had earlier in the year dismissed a rumor to the effect that
the palace of Baturyn, built by the last hetman Kyrylo Rozumovsityi, had
recently been sold to a Russian (RU 9 January 1991, 3).
Several other articles appeared in 1991 concerning central Ukraine's Cossack past. Under the heading "The Cossacks Are the Spirit of Ukraine," the
formation of a Coordinating Council of Cossack Companies of Kyiv Oblast
was annnounced (MU 24 April 1991, 3). Sil's'ki visti reported the unveiling of
an obelisk in Cherkasy Oblast at the site of the battle of Korsun' (1648), in
which Khmernytsicyi's men had successfully ambushed a Polish army (SV 4
June 1991, 4). There was some interest in Chyhyryn, another place with a
Cossack heritage in Cherkasy Oblast. Robitnycha hazeta announced the start of
a huge project of restoration in the area, while aRadians'ka Ukraina correspondent went to Russia to visit the grave of one of the Chyhyryn-based hetmans
(RH 6 November 1991, 2; RU 25 November 1991, 6).20
The northeast, Donbas, and south were regions that from the point of view
of Ukrainian nationalism were most in need of demonstrations of their Ukrainian historical roots. Of the whole republic, these regions have the highest
percentage of ethnic Russians; the Ukrainian language was a rarity in public
life there. Whether they would have majorities in favor of the declaration of
independence was far from certain. Moreover, there were various Russian
claims to these lands (Sysyn 1991, 860; Solchanyk 1992, 37-38).
There was almost no coverage of Cossack events in the northeastern oblasts
of Poltava, Sumy, and Kharkiv: a gathering of descendants from Cossacks was
reported from Poltava (RH 6 November 1991, 6), and in Sumy an exhibition
128
BERKHOFF
about the Cossacks was opened (RH 4 July 1991, 4). The Donbas received
more attention. Two weeks after the declaration of sovereignty, readers of
Radians'ka Ukraina were told that the Zaporozhian Cossacks had gone as far as
Luhansic (RU 29 July 1990, 3). There was an article about the recent reestablishment of Cossack units in DonetsTc (MU 23 July 1991,2). Robitnycha hazeta
reviewed readers' letters about Polubotok's lost gold. All were very politicized,
but one stood out:
Gentlemen, strange things are going on! The hetman of which Ukraine deposited a treasure in a bank? The Left Bank! So what has the Right Bank to do
with this, with its designs on the inheritance? To say nothing of the
Galicians?!... Don't count your chickens before they are hatched! The gold
and interest are ours! In Left Bank Ukraine.... We are planning to reestablish
the Kryvyi Rih-Donets' Republic.
These writers were referring to the industrial Soviet republic which had
briefly existed in the Donbas and Dnipro regions until Lenin's decision of
March 1918 to abolish it (Bilinsky 1977, 113). Their letter bluntly denied that
the Cossack past was to be shared by all regions and all citizens of Ukraine.
The journalist quoting it deeply regretted that this kind of "regionalism, national narrow-mindedness, and rampant separatism" still existed, "despite the
calls for unity and consolidation" (Ivan Falito in RH 18 August 1990, 3; cf.
Solchanyk 1991, 12).
Similarly, there were only a few articles about the southern oblasts. All of
these served a by now familiar goal. Ukrinform reviewed an exhibition in
Odesa, which showed how actively the Cossacks had fought the Ottomans in
the area. It was characteristic of its stand on the Cossack theme at the time of
publication, August 1990, that the press agency added that the Zaporozhians
had received help from the Russians and that this combined effort had made it
possible to found the city of Odesa (RH 8 August 1990, 3).
As early as 1988, Sil's'ki visti had proposed the establishment in Odesa
Oblast of a nature reserve devoted to the Cossacks who had lived there. Early in
1991 Radians'ka Ukraina supported the idea, suggesting that the park be called
"Zaporozhian beyond the Danube" (RU 7 February 1991, 3; RU 17 May 1991,
3). Later that year, Robitnycha hazeta reported extensively on a search for
remains of Cossack settlements in another southern oblast, Kherson (RH 3
August 1991,4; RH 7 August 1991,4 ; RH 8 August 1991, 4).
The Crimean Tatars have not yet been mentioned. They represented a
sensitive issue in Ukraine, so it is perhaps not surprising that Ukrainian coverage of the Cossack past almost completely ignored the ancestors of these
people. Only the historian V. A. Smolii said anything substantial, and that was
in an interview for Pravda Ukrainy in which he stated that without the Sich,
Tatar and Ottoman attacks would have resulted in "the extermination of the
Ukrainian people" (PU 19 July 1990, 3; PU 18 August 1990, 3).21 Volodymyr
Serhiichuk did not go this far. He mentioned the antagonism between Tatars
129
and Ukrainians, but did not level such strong accusions against the former.
Indeed, he said one hetman had actually joined Tsar Ivan IV ("the Terrible") in
an attack on Crimea (Serhiichuk 1991).22
This long article by Serhiichuk, published in several installments in Pravda
Ukrainy in November 1991, was the major publication aimed at informing a
mass Russian-language audience about the Cossack past of the Russian-dominated regions of the republic. Serhiichuk's first point was an obvious one,
which nevertheless had been a forbidden subject for Ukrainians for decades: in
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Muscovy was separated from the Cossacks by the "dikoe pole/dyke pole" (wild field)—the thinly populated steppes.
This fact implied that there were hardly any contacts between the Russian and
Ukrainian peoples which could have "culminated" in the Pereiaslav Agreement
(Myhul 1973, 119). Secondly, Serhiichuk said that Ukrainian colonization of
the steppes began spontaneously and very early on, before there were any
Russians there. One direction was to the south, another to what is now called
the Donbas.
Serhiichuk also talked about Slobozhanshchyna, a Ukrainian-inhabited area
also known as Sloboda Ukraine which was located in Muscovy and is currently
mainly in the northeastern oblasts of Kharkiv and Sumy. This was meant to
reinforce his argument about the Ukrainianness of the south and east and to
refute claims—made for example by Soviet president Gorbachev—that
Kharkiv was a Russian city. Again, Ukrainians, not Russians, were the first to
arrive: "It is important to point out that on many occasions tsarist governors
were taken by surprise by the appearance of Ukrainians in lands which they
thought were still uncolonized." He mentioned an archival document from the
area with Ukrainian names on it, and a population count held in Kharkiv in
1655 which lists 587 Ukrainian Cossack families. There were in his view
"strong ties" between the populations of Slobozhanshchyna and Khmel'nytsieyi's Hetmanate, despite tsarist efforts to prevent them.
Famine and russification caused the Ukrainian share of the population of the
northeast, east, and south to become much smaller than in Cossack times.
Nevertheless, Serhiichuk told his Russian-language readers in conclusion, "the
descendants of those who settled our steppes in those distant years are still
masters of their land. And in the coming days they will be speaking their minds
about creating an independent Ukraine."23
It is to be expected that publications would scrutinize the Soviet interpretation of the Pereiaslav Agreement. Much of the political significance of that part
of history dissipated, however, when Ukraine and the Russian Federation
signed a treaty of cooperation on 19 November 1990. When he came to Kyiv
for the ceremony, the Russian leader Boris Yeltsin brought with him as a
present an archival copy of the Pereiaslav articles. It symbolized the start of a
new era in Russian-Ukrainian relations. After signing the treaty, both Yeltsin
and Kravchuk stated that the Pereiaslav Agreement had subordinated Ukraine
to Russia. Now they had signed their first treaty as independent equals (RH 20
130
BERKHOFF
Nov. 1990, 1; RH 21 Nov. 1990, 3; RU 21 Nov. 1990, 1, 3).24 This political
breakthrough made it much less imperative for Ukrainian nationalism to discuss Pereiaslav's significance. Only a few newspaper articles mentioned it—
most just days before the referendum. These had in common the notion that the
Ukrainians had made a mistake several centuries ago which they would not
make again (RU 27 September 1990, 4; MU 16 March 1991, 1-2; RH 11
November 1991, 3).25 Kravchuk spoke in the same vein at the festivities
honoring the historian Mykhailo Hrushevsicyi in late November 1991 (DU 26
November 1991, 1).
Little was said about Hetman Mazepa. The mass media apparently saw no
compelling reason to publish articles about the hetman—there was no authoritative statement from politicians. In the few articles about him, the interpretation of the "traitor" hetman underwent a cautious transition. First Mazepa was
said to be a figure that one should evaluate carefully (RH 2 November 1990,4);
then his defiance of Peter I was explained (SV 29 May 1991, 4); and in the
latest articles he was fully cleared of the charge of treason, which was now
brought against the Russian tsars (SV25 July 1991,4; SV 23 Nov. 1991, 3; DU
23, 26, 28 Nov. 1991, 3). The Russian-language weekly Komsomol'skoe
znamia—which carried relatively few articles on the Cossacks—noted that
Mazepa had been a cultured person who supported churches (KZ 9 August
1991, 2).26
Several people conducted a campaign for bestowing upon the republic's
future president the title of "hetman." The idea was mentioned more than once
in the Supreme Soviet. Non-communist deputies applauded Kravchuk in May
1991 when he said the title would be introduced if there was significant popular
support for it (RU 15 May 1991, 1). Molod' Ukrainy carried several articles in
which historians presented the idea of a new Hetmanate to the general public.
The ever-active Serhiichuk wrote that the word hetman meant more than
military leader and had political connotations as well. Reinstalling the title
would constitute "a tribute to the statist traditions in Ukraine's past" (MU 13
March 1991, 2). His colleague Vasyl' Ruban argued that there was proof that a
Hetmanate was compatible with democracy, namely the constitution written by
Mazepa's successor Pylyp Orlyk in the Moldovan town of Bendery/Tighina
(1710) (MU 14 July 1991, 2). Mykola Tomenko added that already under
Mazepa a constitution had been written according to which the hetman was to
be chosen by the people. The hetman title was desirable, he said, because the
hetmans had possessed unique moral and "ethnopsychological" qualities (MU
10 August 1991,3).
These historical and not-so-historical arguments failed to achieve their goal.
By the time a group of Cossacks elected presidential candidate Viacheslav
Chornovil as their hetman in a ceremony in a church in Kyiv in late 1991 (DU
19 October 1991, 2), it was clear that few people had warmed to the idea of a
new hetman state. Newspapers other than Molod' Ukrainy did not even mention it. In Molod' Ukrainy itself, the writer Danylo Kulyniak asserted that some
131
Ukrainians, particularly intellectuals, were suffering from a "hetman syndrome." It showed that they were out of touch with reality and that many
difficulties lay ahead on Ukraine's road to democracy (MU 13 March 1991,
2).27
The case of the "hetman syndrome" is similar to the lack of mass-media
attention to Mazepa. As in that case, journalists seem to have been unenthusiastic because political leaders also were not involved.28 One is tempted to ascribe
the way things went to the continuing influence of the Ukrainian political
tradition of populism, which is hard to combine with a cult of the Hetmanate.29
In the wake of the first Cossack celebrations in Dnipro Ukraine, Robitnycha
hazeta correspondent V. Nikitchenko complained that his colleagues had
painted a rosy picture of them. In fact, this journalist accused the local and
republican media, radio included, of covering up "pressure, cruelty, and propaganda," "in order not to upset the people and perhaps for some other reason"
(RH 16 August 1990, 2). Careful consideration of the evidence leads one to
agree that there was indeed a certain cover-up. There was friction at various
Cossack-related events, but this was rarely reported. Much about the Days of
Cossack Glory in 1990 was only mentioned by Nikitchenko. For minutes,
whistling and shouts of "Shame!" prevented Pliushch from addressing the
crowd. There were anti-communist and pro-independence speeches, some by
visitors from the Baltic republics, Russia, Belarus, and the West. There was a
dispute involving the Soviet Ukrainian flag in which opponents of its display
used a megaphone (cf. Krawchenko 1990). A group that included people's
deputy Volodymyr IavorivsTtyi posed an ultimatum concerning the grave of
Ivan Sirko, a hetman whose death was commemorated simultaneously with the
Sich. For some reason, many years ago Sirko's skull had been removed from
the grave—now IavorivsTcyi and others demanded its return within one hour.
Some Cossacks were overheard as saying, "Or else we'll take the raion council
building apart, brick by brick." None of this could be found in the press reports.
Similar items were omitted in 1991, such as the hostile audience facing
Kravchuk in Berestechko, which only two newspapers mentioned.
There was no cover-up of xenophobia at the celebrations, however. It simply was virtually absent. The philosopher Myroslav Popovych had good reason
to express satisfaction with the fact that nobody at the Days of Cossack Glory
called for violence against Poles, Jews, or Russians, "although the Cossack
tradition, one would think, offered an opportunity for this as well" (RH 16
August 1990, 2). Apparently only one participant of Cossack-related meetings
came close. Like Kravchuk, Patriarch Mstyslav of the Ukrainian
Autocephalous Orthodox Church gave a speech in June 1991 on the former
battlefield of Berestechko. The energetic, 93-year-old prelate, who had returned from exile in the United States eight months earlier, called upon those
present to do as Ukraine's national poet Taras Shevchenko had done and to
listen to the Cossack graves. Then they would hear them say that "blood does
not separate you." According to a Western journalist, Patriarch Mstyslav added
132
BERKHOFF
that Ukrainians should respect a government like Kravchuk's, because it "admits that it is time to get rid of all that is inhuman and foreign and understands
the mood of its nation and its roots" (Kolomayets 1991,3). This speech was not
reported in Ukraine, because its intolerant tone deviated from the predominant
interpretation of the Cossacks, and probably also because journalists considered the speaker to be unsuitable for telling Ukrainians about their heritage,
because he was known to have cooperated with the Germans during World War
II (PU 7 November 1990, 3; RH 1 June 1991, 3; RH 4 June 1991, 3; see also
Ukrainian Weekly 6 January 1991, 7; Report on the USSR 3 (2) 1991: 10-12).
The Cossacks' Russian and Polish adversaries were mentioned, but mostly
in ways unlikely to inflame ethnic hatred. As noted, there was little mention of
the Baturyn massacre.30 In the case of Poles, reports carefully called the enemy
"the Polish nobility," according to Soviet custom, rather than "the Poles."31
The Muslim Tatars and Turks, however, received generally unfavorable press.
Finally, there was total silence about the anti-Jewish pogroms in which the
Cossacks were involved, as well as about Cossack attacks on Ukrainian Greek
Catholics. Clearly, no journalist felt like discussing these topics, whatever the
reason. Soviet historiography also had avoided them.
The large newspapers displayed little interest in certain chauvinistic and
irrational notions, interpretations going beyond the idea that the Cossacks
embodied a freedom-loving and national democratic Ukrainian spirit.32 Assertions that the Sich had been a republic unique in the world of that time were not
frequent.33 Similarly, journalists paid little attention to the "Ukrainian Spiritual
Republic," an organization with commemorative meetings of its own and led
by Oles' Berdnyk, a science fiction writer and mystical thinker who believed
that nationalities are organisms, and that Ukrainians are traditionally tolerant of
other peoples. The exception was Molod' Ukrainy—that newspaper tended
towards radical nationalism.34
Finally, the Cossack campaign was remarkable for not making any reference to the cruel side of the Cossack phenomenon. Only Dmytro Pavlychko,
the head of the Ukrainian Language Society, was noted as saying that Hetman
Sirko used to put those who fell out of his favor to the sword. But he hastened
to add, "God forbid that we should again start carrying out Sirko's orders. Let
the mankurts [slaves without memory] die in peace. We will realize a united
Ukraine by means of just and kind words" (RU 9 August 1990, 3).
Several characteristics of articles on the Cossacks in large-circulation republican newspapers stand out. First, the publications were strongly patriotic and
all major regions of the republic were ukrainianized through history. Coverage
of the Cossack past and related current events concerned every region (though
not every single oblast), and the reader was led to believe, explicitly or implicitly, that it was only natural that they should all be part of a modern Ukrainian
state. Second, ethnocentrism remained in the background, and the ethnocentric
term natsiia was completely absent. Articles spoke instead of "the Ukrainian
people" (narod), "the Ukrainians," or, more inclusively, of "us" and "the
133
people of Ukraine"; although it deserves mention that the latter concept was
used only initially, in reports on the Verkhovna Rada's statement on the Days
of Cossack Glory. Finally, the "Cossack spirit," as it was promoted, was neither
elitist nor anarchist—the hetmans were neither idolized nor denounced, and
structured society as a whole was far from being condemned.35 Neither was
there militancy, xenophobia, chauvinism, or cruelty. Such attitudes were rarely
touched upon, and when they were, they were dismissed. What predominated
instead was a vague populism. Articles applauded a never quite specified blend
of valor, freedom, and, most importantly, common ancestry.
In 1990 Ukraine's political elite faced two great challenges. One was the
crumbling of the "imperial" state and economy as represented by the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. The other was the steady growth of a Ukrainian
national movement "from below." Rather than losing power, the Communists
of Ukraine jumped on the bandwagon of Ukrainian state sovereignty. The CPU
bolstered its turn away from Moscow with historical mythmaking. No "heritage" seemed better suited for gaining popular support than the Cossacks. This
was why the republican newspapers—accustomed to biased reporting for decades and generally guided by Communist Party directives and Kravchuk's
example—took on yet another propaganda campaign, this time in praise of the
Cossacks.
The decision by Ukraine's elite accelerated the momentum toward independence. Ukrainian nationality-building {konsolidatsiia) and Ukrainian state-formation reinforced each other, perhaps most of all because the republican mass
media avoided the trap of ethnocentrism. There can be little doubt that the
Cossack campaign reassured many non-Ukrainians that they could also benefit
from becoming citizens of a Ukrainian state.
After the referendum on independence, the dissolution of the Soviet Union,
and the world's recognition of independent Ukraine, the moderate Ukrainian
way as epitomized by the Cossack campaign of 1990-1991 was pursued. The
constitution adopted in 1996 eschews ethnocentrism, starting with "We, the
Ukrainian people—citizens of Ukraine of all nationalities." By that time, the
former Soviet republic still had many problems, but its leaders and people
could have done much worse in their handling of the emotional issue of
national identity.
134
BERKHOFF
NOTES
For their criticism I am grateful to Professors Roman Szporluk, Paul
Robert Magocsi, and Stephen Velychenko. For financial support I thank
the Soviet Union Program at Harvard University's Russian Research
Center (now the Davis Center for Russian Studies), the Department of
History of the University of Toronto, and the Stichting Dr. Hendrik
Muller's Vaderlandsch Fonds at the Hague.
1.
An example is Budiansky 1992, which claims that Ukrainians "nurse
grudges" in the veneration of KhmeinytsTiyi. A letter of protest by
Ukraine's ambassador to the U.S. is in Ukrainian Weekly (Jersey City)
13 December 1992: 11.
2.
It would be unwise to overemphasize the causal connection between the
Cossack campaign and the outcome of the referendum. First, the breadand-butter argument may have played the key role. Second, there were
other important information channels available to Ukraine's population
which will not be studied here: Ukrainian radio, television, and oblast
newspapers (as well as, of course, the mass media originating from the
center of the Soviet Union). Finally, any explanation of the vote for
independence would have to consider the communist political culture.
Many people may have voted the way they did because authorities had
told them so. This is suggested by Deychakiwsky (1992,12) and Hrytsak
(1992,15). The referendum results are in Potichnyj (1992, 123-38).
3.
These titles will be abbreviated in the notes as, respectively: SV, RH, MU,
RU (DU after RU was renamed Demokratychna Ukraina in October
1991), PU, and KZ. For 1990 SV, MU, and KZ were unavailable to me.
Two relevant titles that were unavailable to me were Za vil'nu Ukrai'nu
(For a Free Ukraine, Western Ukrainian, 500,000) and Holos Ukrainy
(Voice of Ukraine, publication of the Ukrainian Supreme Soviet,
330,000). Two publications with a circulation higher than 300,000 did
not write about the Cossacks at all: Zhinka (Woman, 1.5 million) and
Perets' (Pepper, humor magazine, 1.1 million).
4.
My region-focused approach to Cossack mythmaking is also inspired by
Williams and Smith 1983.
5.
This paragraph paraphrases these sources, especially Connor 1991. For a
study stressing that national community is not only imagined see Smith
1986.
6.
For the 1961 All-Union guidelines for historians, see Farmer (1980, 91).
Gems 1982 argues that Cossack tradition and the memory of it played a
decisive role in subverting independent Ukrainian statehood in the years
1917-1920.
135
7.
In 1988, as can be deduced from Mytsyk 1990. In mid-1989 RU presented a section about the Cossacks (entitled "KozatsTcomu rodu nema
perevodu") which prompted many letters from readers (RU 13 May
1991: 1).
8.
The exception at the time was Za vil'nu Ukraïnu, founded in July 1990 in
L'viv. See Baziv 1991.
9.
The local authorities were not cooperative and fined each organizer 200
rubles.
10.
Possibly PU had been inspired by Shelest, who had stressed the cooperation between Ukrainian and Russian Cossacks (1970, 21).
11.
An article on the battle by the historians V. A. Smolii and V. S.
Karpenkov is in RU 16 June 1991: 3. On the celebration in LutsTc, the
capital of Volhynia Oblast, see PU 18 June 1991: 1.
12.
Patriarch Mstyslav's own speech will be discussed below.
13.
Before 1939 the oblast was part of Romania as northern Bukovina and
northern Bessarabia. (Southern Bessarabia is now in Odesa Oblast and
the Republic of Moldova.)
14.
The woman's name is documented as Roksolana. She is alleged to have
been one Nastia LisovsTca.
15.
Western descriptions of the 1990 Days of Cossack Glory include:
Chrystyna N. Lapychak in Ukrainian Weekly 23 September 1990: 8-9
and 11; John Hewko in Ukrainian Weekly 26 August 1990: 1;
Yushchenko 1992. These articles do not confirm Lapychak's statement
in Ukrainian Weekly 12 August 1990: 1, that on the second day, 5
August, Pliushch "discussed 'an independent Ukraine' for the first time."
16.
About the conference, see Ukrdins'kyi istorychnyi zhurnal 10 (1991):
153-56. Work on a historical atlas showing the size of KhmernytsTiyi's
Hermánate is reported in SV13 May 1991: 3.
17.
The most extensive description of the festivities is in SV 11 June 1991: 1.
See also la. Chornohuz in Ukrains'ka kul'tura 9 (1991).
18.
From Desnians'ka pravda 25 July 1990. RU 30 August 1990: 3, was
unsympathetic, but quoted from Dzvin's program. An interview with a
Canadian participant is in Ukrainian Weekly 30 September 1990: 9.
19.
A tour in Cherkasy and Kyiv oblasts in early 1991 is described by a
participant in MU 12 February 1991: 2.
20.
Petro Doroshenko, who opposed the Treaty of Andrusovo (1667), which
divided Ukrainian lands in parts ruled by Poles and Russians. Attention
had been devoted to Chyhyryn in the years 1987-1989 in connection
with plans to build a nuclear power plant there. Public protests, some of
136
BERKHOFF
them pointing out Chyhyryn's historical significance, had averted them.
See Marples (1988, 263, 266) and (1991, 132).
21.
A year later Smolii (1991) said he was opposed to historical mythmaking
(mifotvorchist1). Roman Holovyn also mentioned the Tatars (MU 10
October 1991: 4).
22.
The hetman was Dmytro Vyshnevetsiiyi.
23.
Serhiichuk also talked about the fact that there used to be Ukrainian
majorities in parts of neighboring Russian oblasts until the 1930s. A
letter from a descendant of the Zaporozhian Cossacks who settled near
Rostov on the Don is in RH 25 May 1991: 4.
24.
On Russian-Ukrainian relations, see Szporluk 1986; Velychenko (1993,
213-22); and Solchanyk 1992.
25.
Most notable was a prepublication of a book by Olena Apanovych in
Molod' Ukrainy. This treatment of Pereiaslav stood out for its bitter tone,
arguing that "not in his worst nightmares could [Khmeinytsicyi] have
foreseen the abyss of unhappiness, disaster, suffering, cruelty, enslavement, and genocide the Ukrainian people would be thrown in for centuries because of this treaty [with a] backward and in many respects
barbarian state" (MU 26 November 1991: 3). Neglected in 1991 was the
fact that the Sich had welcomed the Pereiaslav Agreement. This had been
mentioned by Pravda Ukrainy the year before (3 August 1990: 4), possibly inspired by Shelest (1970, 25).
26.
No large newspaper mentioned the plans to renovate Mazepa's house in
Kyiv's Podil district. Cf. the unsigned item in Ukrainian Weekly 16
December 1990: 7.
27.
Petro Kropyva expressed doubt about the democratic convinctions of the
hetmans in DU 28 November 1991, 3.
28.
In 1989 Kravchuk had been involved in sending young Russian nationalists back to Moscow after their arrival in Poltava, where they planned to
celebrate Mazepa's defeat (Szporluk 1989, 31n70).
29.
If public opinion played a crucial role in the rejection of the proposal to
introduce the hetman title, this would indicate that Eric Hobsbawm was
right when he said that historical mythmaking (the "invention of tradition") can only be successful if a significant part of the population is
receptive to it (Hobsbawm 1983, 307). There is no evidence that the
Hetmanate (unlike the Sich) has ever been popular among the Ukrainian
peasantry; see Kohut (1988, 296).
30.
Next to nothing was published on Cossack-related developments in Russia. (On the revival of the Cossacks there, see Gehrmann 1992.) Only one
published letter voiced concern that the Ukrainians were wasting their
137
time celebrating the Cossack past, while the Russian Cossacks had already founded an umbrella organization (RU 8 September 1990: 4). A
year later Ukrainian Republican Party leader Levko Luklanenko was
reported as saying that the Zaporozhian Cossacks should return, as a
military and sporting organization, to remind Ukrainians of their Cossack
past (MU 1 November 1991: 1). At that time an umbrella organization
had in fact been formed. This All-Ukrainian Cossack Council urged for a
yes-vote in the referendum. Its statement, however, was not published in
large-circulation newspapers. See "Zaklyk VseukramsTcoi Kozatsicoi
Rady," Literaturna Ukraina 1 November 1991: 3.
31.
Another article claimed that Zaporozhians who fought in Ottoman service against Greeks and Serbs felt so guilty about having to fight these
fellow Christians that they decided to use blank cartridges (RU 7 February 1991: 3).
32.
Such interpretations can be found in publications for intellectuals of the
time. See Korniienko 1991.
33.
See above, pp. 119 and 120.
34.
On the first "World Assembly of Spiritual Ukraine," see RU 13 July
1990: 4; on the second, RU 12 July 1991: 4; MU 2 July 1991: 1; and MU
4 July 1991: 1. Interviews with Berdnyk are in MU 29 June 1991: 2 and
MU 13 August 1991: 1. See also MU 2 February 1991: 1 and MU 28
March 1991: 3.
35.
All quite unlike Panteleimon Kulish, the nineteenth-century Ukrainian
writer and historian, and unlike his contemporary Taras Shevchenko. On
the consistent debunking of Cossack mythology by the former, and on
Shevchenko's "anarchist" view of the Cossacks, see Grabowicz 1981.
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147-170. Armonk, New York and London, England.
Rudnytsky, Ivan L. 1982. "Pereiaslav: History and Myth." In Pereiaslav: A
Historiographical Study, ed. John Basarab, pp. xi-xxviii. Edmonton,
Alberta.
Serhiichuk, Volodymyr [Vladimir Sergeichuk]. 1991. "Так ch'i zhe prędki
naseliali nasbi stepi?" PU 14 November: 4; PU 16 November: 4; PU 19
November: 4.
Shelest, P. Iu. 1970. Ukraino nasha Radians'ka. Kyiv.
. 1989. Interview in Kyiv 10: 90-110.
Slovo [of the Taras Shevchenko Ukrainian Language Society]. 1990. Nos. 6,
14,16,20,21.
Sierikov, Anatolii. 1991. Interview in Ukrainian Weekly 3 November: 9,11.
Smith, Anthony D. 1986. The Ethnic Origins of Nations. Oxford and New
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-. 1992. "Ukraine, The (Former) Center, Russia, and 'Russia'." Studies in Comparative Communism 25(1): 31—45.
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Subtelny, Orest. 1988. Ukraine: A History. Toronto.
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Szporluk, Roman. 1975. "Russians in Ukraine and Problems of Ukrainian
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Forum: A Ukrainian Review (Scranton, Pa.) 86 (Summer): 3-9.
Indigenous and Diaspora Elites and the Return of
Carpatho-Ruthenian Nationalism, 1989-1992
RAYMOND A. SMITH
In the aftermath of the collapse of Communism throughout Eastern Europe and
the Soviet Union, the reappearance of an old debate over national identity
among the Carpatho-Ruthenian people has gone largely unremarked. Yet developments in Carpatho-Ruthenia1 during the period 1989-1992 must be regarded as among the most unexpected in the early post-Cold War era. Indeed,
as recently as the mid-1980s, most observers had consigned to oblivion the
phenomenon of Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalism.2 Nonetheless, the transitional period between 1989 and 1992 saw a veritable flowering of renewed
Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist activity.
Carpatho-Ruthenia is located in a region of extreme cultural heterogeneity.
Historically, it was situated at the intersection of the Russian Empire, Habsburg
Galicia, and the Hungarian Kingdom. Culturally, it is at the zone of transition
from, to use Riccardo Picchio's terms, Slavia romana to the Slavia orthodoxa.
Politically, it is at the juncture of the modern states of Hungary, Slovakia,
Ukraine, Poland, and Romania. Between 1848 and 1948, a variety of local and
diaspora factions of Carpatho-Ruthenian elites agitated on behalf of several
different national orientations including pro-Magyar, pro-Slovak, pro-Russian,
and pro-Ukrainian. Another movement—sometimes called Rusynophilism—
advocated a unique "Rusyn" or Ruthenian national identity. After 1918, the
pro-Magyar and pro-Slovak factions dropped off, but the other factions remained publicly active through 1948 (see Magocsi 1978 for the history).
The post-war period saw the geographic partition of Carpatho-Ruthenia
among the Transcarpathia Oblast of Ukraine, the Presov region of Slovakia,
and the Lemkovina region of Poland.3 By mandate of Soviet nationality policy,
the Polish, Soviet, and Czechoslovak governments attempted to settle the stillopen question of Carpatho-Ruthenian national identity by the imposition of a
Ukrainian national designation on the people, and the removal of almost all
distinctively Carpatho-Ruthenian cultural, linguistic, religious, and other institutions and resources from the public arena. These and other developments
were widely regarded as having been successful in persuading most CarpathoRuthenians to view themselves as a part of the Ukrainian nation.
In the immediate aftermath of the collapse of Communist regimes in the
area, however, several new organizations appeared in Slovakia and Ukraine
that both vigorously rejected the Ukrainian national designation and forcefully
asserted that the Carpatho-Ruthenians constitute an East Slavic people related
to but nonetheless distinct from the Ukrainian people. Such organizations as
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the Society of Carpatho-Rusyns in Transcarpathia Oblast in Ukraine and the
Rusyn Renaissance Society in the PresOv region of Slovakia demanded immediate artistic revival and cultural renewal, but their longer-term agendas were
more far-reaching. In a series of bitter polemics and passionate manifestos,
these and other groups made demands ranging from the establishment of local
autonomy to the creation of an independent "Subcarpathian Republic." They
attacked their opponents unyieldingly and offered no compromise on the view
that Carpatho-Ruthenia is a fully separate nation. These groups were quite
successful in opening new chapters, attracting members, taking control of
cultural and certain political institutions, and generally seizing control of the
nationality debate.4
One compellingly straightforward explanation for the return of CarpathoRuthenian nationalism is that despite Communist persecution, allegiance to the
idea of a Carpatho-Ruthenian nation, "never died in the Carpathian homeland.
It was just waiting for its moment to be publicly reborn" (Magocsi 1991a, 344).
As soon as the repressive institutions of the police state were dismantled in
Czechoslovakia and Ukraine, such a view argues, this privately sustained
nationalist sentiment simply resurfaced again and spontaneously took organizational form from "the bottom up."
While no doubt containing some elements of truth, this explanation is in
many ways incomplete and unsatisfying. The collapse of Communism indeed
may have been a necessary condition, but it cannot be viewed as sufficient
cause, mainly because the people of Carpatho-Ruthenia themselves had never
settled the question of their national orientation. That is, when the Ukrainian
national designation was externally imposed on them after World War II, the
debate over national identity still had not ran its natural course. If anything,
however, pro-Ukrainian factions seemed to be winning the debate, and therefore the Communist imposition of Ukrainian identity may be regarded as
simply having accelerated and confirmed a pre-existing trend. In any case, by
1939, the Rusynophile view was running third, behind the pro-Russian view as
well (see Magocsi 1978 and Shandor 1997 for a history of the period).
Since there was relatively little in the way of passionate Carpatho-Ruthenian
nationalism in the homeland before World War II, it becomes hard to argue that
the post-Communist nationalist organizations were simply picking up a clearcut, hallowed tradition that had been brutally suppressed by the Communists
for almost half a century. The contrary might be argued—that Communist
persecution, despite its rigorous efforts to the contrary, actually ended up
having the effect of galvanizing the Carpatho-Ruthenians and convincing them
of their distinct nationhood. Yet no prominent scholar, politician, or intellectual
seems to have advanced this thesis, and there is little or no evidence now
available to support such an opinion.
If it cannot be demonstrated that there was a Carpatho-Ruthenian "shadow
nation" lying in wait for the end of Communist rale, it also cannot simply be
asserted that the sudden appearance of nationalist organizations was solely an
RETURN OF CARPATHO-RUTHENIAN NATIONALISM
143
elemental and inevitable response to the end of Communist rule. Rather, a
review of the literature suggests that the contemporary nationalist organizations represent new phenomena that may have been fashioned out of the raw
material of feelings of Carpatho-Ruthenian ethnic distinctiveness, but that were
not necessarily continuous with earlier Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist movements.
If this interpretation is correct, then events in Carpatho-Ruthenia following
Ukrainian independence must have been caused not by the resurgence of
primordial sentiments of ethnicity but rather by the instrumental application of
nationalist sentiment to achieve specific political goals. Attention therefore
should be focused not on the collective unconscious of the masses but on the
rational calculation of elites. Such a perspective falls within the purview of
theories of ethnopolitics, by which is meant the manipulation of ethnicity by
entrepreneurial elites pursuing power, prestige, and/or wealth.
In the particular case of the Carpatho-Ruthenians, the evidence suggests that
there may have been two distinct groups of political "entrepreneurs" at work:
indigenous elites, who ran the nationalist organizations, and diaspora elites,
who provided the former with critical support. The sudden appearance and
intransigent disposition of the new Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist organizations can thus best be understood as the result of a feedback process between
indigenous and diaspora elites—elites that were pursuing separate and distinct
agendas that happened, almost coincidentally, to complement each other.
Indigenous elites, largely composed of academics, artists, and scientists
earlier excluded from power, were making instrumental use of CarpathoRuthenian nationalism because it provided them with the most efficient source
of leverage against the three groups that they perceived as potential challengers
for control of Carpatho-Ruthenia. These potential challengers were: 1) entrenched Communist-era elites seeking to maintain power on the local/regional
level; 2) Ukrainian and Slovak nationalist groups seeking to claim CarpathoRuthenians as their own; and 3) the central governments in Kyiv, Prague, and
Bratislava seeking to squelch local autonomy/separatist movements. While a
number of different tactics could be used to combat any one of these challengers, only the view that Carpatho-Ruthenia constitutes a separate nation could be
used to fend off all three challengers simultaneously.
These challengers, since they were larger or better established, or both, all
had appreciably superior access to both symbolic and material resources, a fact
that forced the new local elites to look elsewhere for counterbalancing resources. The new local elites found such resources—in the form of scholarly
studies, nationalist ideology, economic support, and religious structures—
among the Carpatho-Ruthenian diaspora in the United States,5 which for its
own reasons utterly rejects the Ukrainian national orientation.
For their part, the academic and religious figures who constitute the majority of the diaspora elites rely heavily on the existence of a distinct CarpathoRuthenian identity for the continued vitality of their professional lives. For
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them, the return of a strongly self-identified Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist
movement in the European homeland is essential for promoting the credibility
of their own intellectual pursuits and the continued existence of their separate
ecclesiastical structures.6 It also assists in rallying the support and participation
of the Carpatho-Ruthenian American community that is their rational constituency.
Thus, although both the indigenous and diaspora elites were first and foremost pursuing their own agendas, the interactive relationship between the two
became one of the major driving forces behind such Carpatho-Ruthenian nation-building processes as linguistic codification, the appropriation of national
heroes, and the revitalization of indigenous church structures. For example, the
creation of a standard literary Ruthenian language has been taken up by an
international conference of indigenous and diaspora elites organized by American-born and Canadian-based scholar Paul R. Magocsi (see Magocsi 1992).
Likewise, Carpatho-Ruthenians in both the U.S. and Slovakia worked together
to establish the late artist Andy Warhol as a national hero with a distinctive
style influenced by Carpatho-Ruthenian church iconography (Jumba 1987, 4).
Further, Byzantine Catholic Church officials in the U.S. coordinated with local
bishops to lobby the Vatican to preserve the status of the Byzantine diocese of
Mukacevo-Uzhhorod as an entity separate from the then-newly reconstituting
Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church ("Revolution of 1989," Spring 1991, 7).
In all, three observations can be made on the basis of the material presented
above: 1) the "primordial resurgence" perspective is inadequate to explain the
phenomenon of post-independence Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalism;
2) ethnopolitics theory can fruitfully be applied to the Carpatho-Ruthenian
situation; and 3) there was a mutually reinforcing relationship between indigenous and diaspora Carpatho-Ruthenian elites. Thus the question emerges: to
what degree does the empirical evidence available in the U.S. for the critical
period of 1989-1992 confirm the view that both indigenous and diaspora
Carpatho-Ruthenian elites were engaged in active ethnic promotion?
The Indigenous Elites
The concept of "ethnic entrepreneurship" derives from Joseph Rothschild, who
writes:
. . . [W]hereas ethnicity is not necessarily or inevitably politicized in all
historical eras and under all social conditions, it is likely to become so . . . if
those with a conscious interest in maintaining or changing . . . existing patterns, distributions, and structures determine that it would be instrumentally
useful to them to mobilize ethnicity from a psychological or cultural or social
datum into a political resource and lever of action . . .
A newly emergent social stratum within a traditionally subordinate ethnic
group may instrumentally serve its purposes by radicalizing and politicizing
the entire group toward such militantly resurgent ethnonationalism... [This
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is not] a mere smokescreen of ethnic politics behind which and through which
such a stratum pursues only its own narrower "class" interests. More likely
and more frequently, such a subelite authentically believes its particular grievances and aspirations to be utterly congruent with those of its ethnic groups as
a whole . . . (1981, 248-50).
From the outset, it should be noted that to suggest that indigenous elites are
making instrumental use of nationalism in pursuit of political leverage is not to
suggest either that they are foisting a deliberately manufactured nationalism on
an unwitting populace or that they are cynically mouthing nationalist platitudes
without conviction or belief. The opposite, in fact, is the case. A review of the
available literature shows that even in 1989 there remained among the populace
at least some sense of Carpatho-Ruthenian distinctiveness, and thus at least to
some extent the new local elites were responding to préexistent rather than
newly created sentiment. This is consistent with Rothschild's position that
ethnicity exists as a "psychological or cultural or social datum" even before the
onset of politicization. Likewise, there is nothing contradictory in stating that
the new local elites had some genuine depth of commitment to CarpathoRuthenian national aspirations, or that as Rothschild puts it, their "militantly
resurgent ethnonationalism . . . [is not] a mere smokescreen."
The application of this theory of ethnopolitics, then, does not by any means
presume an absence of genuinely held nationalist goals and aspirations. It does,
however, require three conditions. First, there must be ethnic elites who either
have power and wish to keep it or who have traditionally been out of power but
now see the possibility of seizing it. (Again, this assumes that, by definition,
elites seek power, prestige, wealth, or some combination of all three.) Second,
those elites must have a serious challenger or challengers for that political
power, and thus are in search of a maximally effective offensive strategy. And
third, they must perceive politicized ethnicity as the most effective approach
available to them. Did each of these conditions exists in the case of CarpathoRuthenian nationalist organizations?
The first proposition is perhaps the easiest to establish. Straggles over
leadership in Carpatho-Ruthenia were only part of a vastly larger pattern of
transition to new leadership throughout the post-Communist world. In the face
of massive systemic social and political change, the hold on power of the old
leadership in the Soviet Union and Communist Eastern Europe was badly
shaken and there were few if any places left where leaders were free to
continue in power in the same way as they had before. Overall, two patterns of
leadership change emerged: old leaders and organizations assumed new, nonCommunist incarnations and new leaders and organizations came to center
stage. In the Carpatho-Ruthenian situation, both the new nationalist organizations and the new indigenous elites clearly belonged to the latter group.
In terms of organizations, a number of Communist-era bodies made concessions to Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist sentiments by changing their names
and charters to include references to "Rusyn-Ukrainians" (construed as one and
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the same). But the new organizations that genuinely stressed CarpathoRuthenian nationalism without exception came into being after 1989, and thus
clearly were newly created power bases, not reconfigurations of pre-existing
power bases. Similarly, the new indigenous elites who ran these nationalist
organizations were almost exclusively individuals who previously were not
involved in politics and, thus, were not tainted by association with the Communist era. Although systematic statistics on the previous activities and occupations of all the new indigenous elites are not available, one survey of eight of
the top officials in the Society of Carpatho-Rusyns indicated that they were all
political neophytes. Among the eight were a secondary school administrator, a
professor of biochemistry, a horticultural engineer, a translator, an architect, a
painter, a medical researcher, and a high school principal; in short, all had
previously been members of decidedly non-political occupations without direct
access to political power ("The Society of Carpatho-Rusyns," 4).
The first condition for application of ethnopolitics theory can thus be unambiguously established: the indigenous elites who ran Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist organizations were indeed individuals who had been traditionally
excluded from power and perceived an opportunity to seize it.
Concerning the second point—by virtue of the fact that they had to struggle
to obtain power, it also is clear that the indigenous elites did indeed have
challengers for that power. Theoretically, this need not have been the case in all
situations. It can be argued both that highly stable political situations tend to
keep current elites in power and that some highly unstable situations may so
badly discredit various challengers that only one viable power contender remains. The sweeping, although not truly revolutionary, changes that occurred
in Carpatho-Ruthenia from 1989-1992 seem to have followed a middle course,
shaking the hold of old elites but leaving a number of viable contenders for
control of the region.
Presumably, any number of such challengers would be possible, from any
combination of class, religious, ideological, ethnic, or other backgrounds. But a
review of literature produced by the Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist organizations makes it clear that, as stated above, their strategies were being formulated
with three particular challengers in mind: 1) the old, entrenched Communistera local elites; 2) Ukrainian and/or Slovak nationalist groups; and 3) central
governments in Kyiv, Prague, and Bratislava.
Judging from various documents, both the Society of Carpatho-Rusyns and
the Rusyn Renaissance Society considered their most immediate and serious
challengers to be the old local elites. The Rusyn Renaissance Society founding
manifesto, for instance, found plenty of blame to place on Czechs, Slovaks,
Ukrainians, and Communists as well as "the bloodhounds of Stalin's nationality policy" and "foreign shepherds [who] started like wolves to tear the nation
asunder." But its most withering and sustained attacks were reserved for the old
elite. Repeatedly, those Carpatho-Ruthenians who cooperated with the Communist regime and promoted the Ukrainian national designation were deemed
147
"traitors of their own nation... who are now running around in Ukrainian
coats." Their primary organizational base, the Cultural Union of Ukrainian
Workers (KSUT), was termed "the submissive servant of the party" and was
thus charged with complicity in "all the deformations of the past forty-one
years." With great indignation, the manifesto noted that rather than accepting
blame for their actions, "now the officials of KSUT are lamenting and yammering" about the loss of Carpatho-Ruthenian nationhood. The manifesto also
included an understated but somewhat ominous call "to identify those who
were responsible" for the destruction of the Carpatho-Ruthenian nation, and it
categorically demanded that KSUT dissolve itself ("Manifesto of the CarpathoRusyns in Czechoslovakia").
Although the focus of both the Rusyn Renaissance Society and the Society
of Carpatho-Rusyns was on the local struggle, over time concerns also developed that the old elites might be replaced by new elites from outside CarpathoRuthenia, thus bypassing the indigenous nationalist elites. To some extent, this
no doubt reflected the collapse of the early alliances between Slovak nationalists and Presov-region Carpatho-Ruthenians and between Rukh and
Transcarpathia Oblast Carpatho-Ruthenians; in both cases, once the Slovak and
Rukh forces won their respective battles for independence from Prague and
Moscow, their attentions turned to internal consolidation. In Ukraine, there was
also concern that the Kyiv government might try to place its own operatives in
Transcarpathia Oblast in order to slow down calls for nullification of the post
World War Π treaty that transferred the region to Ukraine from Czechoslovakia
(Reisch 1992a and 1992b).
It is difficult to assess the validity of concerns about the importation of new
elites. Nonetheless, it is clear that at least some indigenous Carpatho-Ruthenian
elites were extremely worried about this issue. The depth of this concern was
apparent in a letter from the head of the Subcarpathian Republican Party, a
spin-off of the Society of Carpatho-Rusyns, to U.S. Byzantine Catholic Bishop
Thomas Dolinay. The letter read in part:
. . . [T]he Rusins suffer from a complex that never permits easy solutions. No
sooner had the might of Moscow disappeared, they hurried to accept the
might of Kiev, Lvov. The early activity among us, by one representative of
the country of Galicia, Henrich Bandorsky, brought to our land about 200
thousand Galicians. They took over everything relating to converting the
country into their own hands. All newspapers, industry, communications, are
in their hands. And they left little in our hands . . .
[T]hey threatened to start hanging all Rusins. They were abetted in some
cases by our own Christ-betrayers, [presumably the old local elites—R.A.S.]
who are fed at the same trough . . . .Canadian Ukrainians have secretly aided
by establishing a fund of many thousands of American dollars to maintain in
power those who persecute Rusins, and to buy even more rich land from us.
They allot to us only the role of servants on our own land . . .
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Regularly all newspapers slander us, and promote the Ukrainian cause. They
are against our people and continue the ongoing genocide by promoting total
Ukramianization . . . Because of [therichesof the land] the Ukraine desires to
annihilate our Rusin people . . . (Zajac 1992, 5).
The letter proceeded to argue that the only viable path for Carpatho-Ruthenians
to follow would be to form their own country, a task that would urgently
require the support of both the diaspora and the world community at large.
In all, then, the second requirement for the application of ethnopolitics
theory is met: there were challengers to the indigenous elites' power, in their
minds three in number. The final and most critical task is to show that the
indigenous elites perceive Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalism as the best means
by which simultaneously to combat all of their potential challengers.
With regard to the third point—the need to perceive politicized ethnicity as
the most effective approach available—the counter-argument here is fairly
straightforward. The use of intransigent nationalist rhetoric in general, and
secessionist rhetoric in particular, is bound to place indigenous elites on a
collision course with the vastly more powerful central governments of the
states in which they live. Therefore, as rational actors, indigenous elites would
not adopt a nationalist approach, even tactically, if any other equally effective
line of attack were possible.
On the local level, for instance, it theoretically should have been possible for
the new local elites to oust the old elites on the strength of anti-Communist
rhetoric alone. After all, anti-Communist sentiment tended to run particularly
strong in areas such as Transcarpathia and the PreSov region wh,ich experienced relatively severe resource deprivation. The problem here is that the antiCommunist tact would have been of no use against Rukh or Slovak nationalists, which themselves are quintessentially anti-Communist, and only of limited use against the central governments, which, although filled with ex-Communists, underwent successful self-redefinitions.
Likewise, in order to combat Ukrainian and Slovak nationalist forces, it
should theoretically have been possible for the new local elites to "play both
ends against the middle." They could, on the one hand, have emphasized
localism, that is, they could stress colorful and unique cultural attributes without making specific Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist claims of their own. Simultaneously, they could reach out to the central governments in Kyiv and
Prague, which have wished, respectively, to keep strident Ukrainian and Slovak nationalist agitation to a minimum.7 Again, however, there is a problem:
the tactic of playing "both ends against the middle" might have effectively
neutralized the appeal of Slovak nationalists and Rukh operatives, but it would,
if anything, have strengthened the hand of the local elites and the central
government and therefore was ineffective as a grand strategy.
Finally, in combating the encroachments of the central governments, the
new local elites could conceivably have stressed not nationalist sentiment per
se, but simple anti-centralist sentiment. At the end of 1991, some 78% of the
149
residents of Transcarpathia voted to become an autonomous region, a move
that would appreciably loosen ties to the central government (Reisch 1992).
This vote could potentially have been seized upon by new local elites as a
mandate. Although the situation in Slovakia was less clear, since there was no
similar plebiscite, there were clearly some centrifugal, anti-Prague forces in
play there. Thus, an anti-centralist tact was a possibility for new local elites.
Yet again, its efficacy would have been limited: it would have provided those
new elites with no leverage against the entrenched local elites, and it might
actually have strengthened the hand of Ukrainian and Slovak nationalists because they were perceived as antagonistic to the central governments.
In all, then, only one approach was possible for the indigenous elites to use
against all three opponents simultaneously: an anti-Ukrainian, "Rusynophile"
orientation.8 Using this approach, the indigenous elites could condemn the old
local elites as pro-Ukrainian traitors. They could paint Rukh as an organization
bent on maintaining the Ukrainian designation, and Slovak nationalists as
challenging their historic rights as a distinct, autochthonous CarpathoRuthenian nationality rather than a Ukrainian "national minority." And they
could resist central governments on the grounds that Carpatho-Ruthenians are a
separate nationality and thus must be treated as a smaller but equal partner—
not a mere sub-set of the larger Ukrainian nationality.
As a further inducement to indigenous elites, advancing the view that
Carpatho-Ruthenia is a separate nation also opened up access to two important
sources of outside assistance. The first was international law, under which
distinct nations are accorded much greater status than mere ethnic subdivisions.
Presumably, the United Nations, the World Bank, the World Court, and other
international bodies would have been far more responsive to representatives of
a full-fledged nation than of a disgruntled ethnic subset of some larger nation.
The other potential source of resources was the Carpatho-Ruthenian diaspora,
which for its own reasons would only be responsive to organizations that are
uncompromising in their rejection of the Ukrainian national designation and
their insistence on Carpatho-Ruthenian nationhood. The motivations lying behind the attitudes held by the diaspora elites are discussed below.
The Diaspora Elites
For the most part, Rothschild's theory of ethnopolitics can as readily be applied
to diaspora elites as to indigenous elites. Without delving into the specifics of
ethnopolitics among ethnic groups in North America, we will take as a given
that in the U.S., as elsewhere, benefits accrue to elites who mobilize their
rational constituencies.
In terms of diaspora elites' possible impact on the homeland, Alexander
Motyl has written:
The part emigres play in the political process is very much a function of the
resources they can mobilize and of the international environment. All partici-
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pants in a political struggle must, as we know, have resources in order to be
able to wage it. Not only must they resist their opponents, but they must also
mobilize their rational constituencies to support them actively. Emigres, quite
simply, have resources in relative abundance. They have money, contacts
with interested foreign agencies, propaganda,firearms,and some diplomatic
clout... At times of systemic distress . . . resource-endowed emigres can assume a significant role in domestic political developments (Motyl 1990,13839).
It can thus be summarized that two key characteristics of the behavior and
efficacy of the Carpatho-Ruthenian diaspora elites will be their perceived selfinterest and their access to resources. Throughout their history, in fact, these
two characteristics have been crucial determinants of the Carpatho-Ruthenian
diaspora's various interactions with the homeland. Among the diaspora groups
of North America, Carpatho-Ruthenians have traditionally been among the
most effective in influencing events in their homeland. The mass conversions
to Russian Orthodoxy among Carpatho-Ruthenians in Europe, for instance,
began with the conversion of a Greek Catholic priest and his parish in Pennsylvania (Sekellick 1992). Likewise, it was pressure from Carpatho-Ruthenian
emigres on President Woodrow Wilson that resulted in the inclusion of "UhroRusinia" (Subcarpathian Ruthenia) as an autonomous constituent unit of the
first Czechoslovak state. And it was also an American who served as the first
governor of Uhro-Rusinia (Magocsi 1991a, 3 3 9 ^ 0 and Shandor 1997, 5-6).
If one therefore assumes a direct relationship between material resource
endowment and the efficacy of diaspora groups, this history might suggest a
Carpatho-Ruthenian American community of great wealth, size, and political
influence. On the contrary, however, the vast majority of Carpatho-Ruthenian
immigrants were illiterate and worked as poorly paid laborers in coal mines and
in other low-prestige positions. They were also among the numerically smallest
of the immigrant groups that played a significant lobbying role. Hence it can be
seen that the most important resource with which the Carpatho-Ruthenian
Americans were endowed was ideological rather than material. In sharp contrast to the confusion over national orientation prevailing in the homeland,
Carpatho-Ruthenian Americans were absolutely certain of one thing—that they
were not Ukrainians. This unflagging certainty is largely the outcome of a
bitter division between certain Carpatho-Ruthenian and Galician Ukrainian
religious, secular, and fraternal organizations in the United States with roots
before the turn of the century. Although some of this division derives from the
homeland, most of it seems to be the product of regional and personal rivalries
in the U.S. (Magocsi 1991a, 336-39). In any case, the Carpatho-Ruthenian
American community—divided into Uníate Catholic and Orthodox churches
and unable to identify with a Carpatho-Ruthenian state—has come to be defined far more by its uniform rejection of the Ukrainian designation than by any
more substantive unifying characteristics.
151
After 1989, when the Carpatho-Ruthenian diaspora in the U.S. was once
again able to play a key role in the development of the homeland, it was not
surprising that its major emphasis would be a rejection of a Ukrainian national
designation for Carpatho-Ruthenians. As seen above, this anti-Ukrainian emphasis on the part of the diaspora dovetailed perfectly with that of the indigenous elites. Historical, ethnographic, linguistic, and political studies produced
by the Carpatho-Rusyn Research Center (based in New Jersey) and widely
disseminated among elites in the homeland, thus uniformly stressed differences
from Ukrainians. The Byzantine Greek Catholic Metropolitanate of Pittsburgh
attempted to lessen the influence of the Ukrainian Catholic Church in the
homeland by supporting the construction of a Byzantine seminary and
churches (Magocsi 1991a, 336-39). And, diaspora elites successfully lobbied
the New York-based Andy Warhol Foundation to become the principal financial support for an art museum in Warhol's ancestral hometown that has
become the headquarters of the Rusyn Renaissance Society (Keselica 1991).
Other examples of support from the diaspora abound.
In sum, indigenous Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalist elites benefited enormously from their contact with the diaspora. But so, too, did the academic and
religious diaspora elites benefit from being able to point to a revived ethnic
community in the homeland. Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalism had been moribund for so long that many who study such matters, especially UkrainianAmericans, had taken to deriding Carpatho-Ruthenian Americans as historical
anomalies "frozen a t . . . a stage of pre-national consciousness that existed
when they left their homeland" (Subtelny 1986). The Carpatho-Ruthenian
national identity had lost so much of its resonance with parishioners that the
Byzantine Greek Catholic Church took to stressing a generic Slavic Christian
identity, even though in the long ran this would tend to undermine the raison
d'être for its separate ecclesiastical structures (Magocsi 1986 and 1991a, 343).
For the academics who based their careers on the study of such issues, the
situation had become similarly grim. For instance, the foremost diaspora specialist on Carpatho-Ruthenian issues, Paul Robert Magocsi, holds a chair of
Ukrainian studies at the University of Toronto and has seen much of his work
published through Ukrainian studies venues, since there was not enough academic activity or community support for university-level Carpatho-Ruthenian
studies in North America to fund analogous and separate venues. Likewise, by
the mid-1980s, the paucity of new information on both Carpatho-Ruthenia and
the diaspora had reduced academics to citing their own research as evidence of
intellectual ferment; Magocsi, for one, would often point to the work of the
Carpatho-Rusyn Research Center—of which he was a founder, president, and
author of some half of its official publications. Likewise, Magocsi has cited the
fact that the U.S. Census Bureau and the Harvard Encyclopedia of American
Ethnic Groups recognize Ruthenians as a separate nationality, even though he
personally was largely responsible for both of those developments.
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SMITH
It thus was with great enthusiasm that Magocsi and others greeted the return
of national consciousness in the homeland, which they simultaneously facilitated and cited as justification for increased interest in the region. The feedback
from events in the homeland was clear in an issue of the Carpatho-Rusyn
American (CRA), for instance, that featured a letter suggesting that new developments in the homeland warranted the creation of a North American university chair in Carpatho-Ruthenian studies. A new round of publications by
Carpatho-Ruthenian specialists encouraged non-specialists to take another look
at the issue.9 And eager to continue the intellectual ferment, editorials in the
CRA called, notably, for the diaspora to provide the homeland not with food,
blankets, or medical supplies, but rather with "the basic tools of communication which we take for granted—typewriters, photocopiers, computers, and
printers..." (Krafcik 1990a).
In all, the academic elites often were seen as crossing over the line between
being "dispassionate" scholars and active political activists. Within North
American scholarly circles, some regard Magocsi as having become as much
the "father of his country" as a detached social scientist. So persistent have
these charges been that Magocsi evidently felt compelled to editorialize in the
CRA that "there are circles in both Europe and America that are not sympathetic to the idea of Carpatho-Rusyn specificity and have misread our work as
being political in nature. The C-RRC [Carpatho-Rusyn Research Center] is not
a political organization . . . We are simply a cultural-educational organization . . . " (1991b, 2).
Such disclaimers notwithstanding, it seems clear that the work of the
diaspora elites was more actively nationalist than humanitarian or specifically
"cultural" in emphasis. As well, both religious and academic diaspora elites
stood much to gain from the revitalization of a Carpatho-Ruthenian national
identity. Yet, there is a potential circularity of reasoning here that must carefully be addressed.
It may be argued, after all, that the diaspora elites active in CarpathoRuthenian affairs have always viewed national consciousness as a worthwhile
aim in itself, a fact demonstrated by their activity. Similarly, it might be said
that they are pursuing a nationalist agenda because they feel that the solidarity
created by national consciousness is a precondition for any serious humanitarian or cultural agendas. Any practical benefits that accrue to the diaspora elites
may thus simply be dismissed as positive externalities that are not their primary
motivation. The key, then, would be to look for signs of whether political
opportunism rather than enduring principle was the guiding force in the behavior of diaspora elites.
In the case of the Byzantine Greek Catholic Church, there seems to be some
readily identifiable evidence of the inconsistent application of, and thus perhaps instrumental use of, nationalist sentiment. For instance, at the time of the
break with the Ukrainian Catholic Church in the U.S., nationality differences
were emphasized. Indeed, this virtually had to be so. Whatever the actual
153
impetus to the formation of separate Byzantine and Ukrainian Catholic
Churches, the only possible legitimating explanation for such a break was
nationality; with the exception of a minor difference in music, the language,
rites, and rubrics of the two churches were virtually indistinguishable (Magocsi
1991a, 338).
After World War Π, as national consciousness became less of a unifying
force for Carpatho-Ruthenian Americans, some church officials began pointedly to de-emphasize the significance of national affiliation when compared
with that of Christian universalism. In fact, as late as 1986, there were still
some "mostly religious-minded apologists from the Byzantine Ruthenian
Catholic Church who argue that the whole idea of a specific ethnic identity is
unimportant. Rather, it is the status of one's Christian soul, and not one's ethnic
background, that is of primary existential concern" (Magocsi 1986, 6).
Yet after 1989, the Byzantine Catholic Church began to very much rediscover its ethnicity and once again promoted Ruthenian national identity as a
worthwhile goal. Despite the serious material deprivation and near-complete
lack of religious training among the people of Carpatho-Ruthenia, representatives of the Byzantine and Ukrainian Catholic Churches expended energy
attacking one another about nationality issues. One terse exchange of letters
published in the CRA between Magocsi and a Ukrainian Catholic bishop over
issues of ethnicity and ecclesiastical jurisdiction found both sides calling for a
truce in order to dedicate their attention to the pressing practical needs of the
homeland. Yet the exchange ultimately served to reinforce the very "mistrust
and misunderstanding between Rusyns and Ukrainians in the homeland and in
America" they were attempting to decry ("Byzantine [Greek] Catholics" 1992,
6-8).
In all, then, there seems to have been a clear pattern of church officials using
nationality when it supported the position of their church and rejecting it when
it was neutral or undermined that position. The previous actions of the Byzantine Greek Catholic Church suggest that its institutional view of nationality was
tailored to meet its instrumental needs.
It is a rather more difficult proposition to establish the instrumental use of
nationalist sentiment among academic figures. Unlike church officials, who
still could make universalist religious claims about general issues of faith and
morals even in the absence of nationalist sentiment, academics studying
Carpatho-Ruthenian issues would be left with such thin gruel as Easter egg
patterns and wooden church architecture if no claims to separate CarpathoRuthenian nationhood were advanced. Thus the Carpatho-Ruthenian academic
community has had more or less consistently to support the idea of distinct
Carpatho-Ruthenian nationhood.
Perhaps the best evidence of the instrumental use of nationalism by academics, then, is the palpable shift in the "criteria of nationhood" that they have been
applying. When Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalism seemed to have vanished in
the homeland, these academics championed a view of nationhood that empha-
154
SMITH
sized subjective factors—if some Americans regarded themselves as CarpathoRuthenians then they were indeed Carpatho-Ruthenians (and not Ukrainians or
Slovaks) regardless of "objective" ethnic markers. In this regard, Orest
Subtleny, himself a Ukrainian-Canadian, wrote in 1986:
. . . Prof. Magocsi's conception of the East Slavs is . . . based only on subjective factors. In other words, he believes that if a group of people says that it is
a distinct nationality, then, ipso facto, it is a nationality...
[But] what, in objective terms, are the nation-defining features of this "national group"? Today their homeland is part of Ukraine and its inhabitants are
Ukrainians. What little survives of 'old country' customs among them is
practically identical to that of Ukrainians. Even the term 'Rusyn' to which
many of them cling so tenaciously is the same as that used by west Ukrainians
prior to the twentieth century . . . (Subtelny 1986,4-5).
A review of the available literature affirms that the scholarship of CarpathoRuthenian academics before the return of nationalism in the homeland was
very much based on the view that nationhood is a subjectively defined phenomenon. Yet, in their critiques of the newly resurgent nationalism in the homeland, these same academics seemed to have fixated on establishing objective
ethnic markers (e.g., language, history, territory, etc.) as a means of indicating
that the inhabitants of the homeland are indeed Carpatho-Ruthenians (and not
Ukrainians or Slovaks) no matter what they or anyone else thinks. At one point,
for instance, the CRA stated that "the vast majority of the estimated 120,000
Rusyns living in the PreSov region continue to identify themselves as Slovaks"
("Revolution of 1989 Update," 6). From the subjective point of view, this
statement is self-contradictory: once it is politically permissible to self-identify
as Ruthenians, how can individuals who nonetheless still subjectively consider
themselves Slovaks actually be Ruthenians?
Likewise, in a 1990 letter to Vaclav Havel, Magocsi stated that CarpathoRuthenians and their descendants numbered nearly 700,000 persons in the U.S.
(Magocsi 1990, 9). Yet, elsewhere, Magocsi stated that the 700,000 figure
includes anyone who has at least one grandparent "of Rusyn origin"—regardless of that individual's subjective national identification (Magocsi 1991a,
336). While some proportion of this population no doubt does consider itself
Carpatho-Ruthenian, it is probably only a tiny fraction; one possible measure
might be gleaned from the fact that the Carpatho-Rusyn Research Center,
presumably the Carpatho-Ruthenian American institution par excellence,
counts among its supporters some 6,000 persons, or less than 1% of the
putative total number of Carpatho-Ruthenians ("Byzantine [Greek] Catholics"
1992, 6-8).
Thus, while Carpatho-Ruthenian academics utterly rejected objective markers of nationality when applied to them by Ukrainians, they were willing to
apply such markers both to self-identified Slovaks in the Preäov region and to
Americans of indeterminate self-identification. Since the definition of nation-
155
hood strikes at the very essence of the entire Carpatho-Ruthenian question,
inconsistency in this area suggests a willingness to make instrumental use of
both nationality and nationalism.
Conclusion
Any attempt to establish both motivations and causal links in the activities of
indigenous and diaspora Carpatho-Ruthenian elites is likely to be considered
controversial. Of course, there are numerous possible counter-arguments to the
various lines of reasoning presented above. It might be argued, for instance,
that what is good for nationalist elites is good for nationalist movements, and
that therefore what might seem to be political opportunism among elites is
actually a valid means of advancing the nationalist cause. It might also be
argued, more fundamentally, that it is impossible to prove whether nationalist
goals precede the rational calculation of nationalist strategy, or vice versa, and
that therefore nationalists should be given the "benefit of the doubt" and
presumed to be genuine in their convictions.
However, such arguments—likely to be advanced by defenders of
Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalism and dismissed by those who champion a
Ukrainian orientation—would largely miss the point. To assert that elites make
instrumental use of nationalism is not to make a value judgement, but rather a
judgement about the nature of nationalism. The ethnopolitics argument states,
at its simplest level, that nationalism does not "just happen," but is made to
happen. Assessing whether a given nationalist movement is good or bad,
sincere or insincere, principled or unprincipled, is a normative rather than a
cognitive matter. Such assessments are, of course, possible, but are only tangentially related to the analysis outlined above.
156
SMITH
NOTES
1.
The historie ethnographie entity in question has been referred to by a
variety of different names in different languages, including Ruthenia,
Rus', Uhro-Rusinia, Uhro-Rus', Carpatho-Russia and Carpatho-Ukraine.
Some version of the terms Rus' (and Rusyn) is preferred by advocates of
a distinct national orientation for the residents of the area. The name used
in this study, Carpatho-Ruthenia, is one of the most neutral, as it is not
clearly associated with any one political position.
2.
Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalism is taken here to mean the belief that
Carpatho-Ruthenia has enough distinctive ethnic characteristics that it
should form a political entity(ies) with at least some degree of autonomy.
3.
Many of those living in Polish Carpatho-Ruthenia more strongly ethnically self-identify as "Lemkos" than as Carpatho-Ruthenians per se.
Thus, although Lemkos do factor into the question of CarpathoRuthenian national identity, this study will be confined to those persons
in Slovakia and Ukraine who live in Carpatho-Ruthenian ethnic territory,
and who do not identify with any other ethnic identity (e.g., Ukrainian,
Slovak, Russian, Jew, Romany, etc.).
4.
These conclusions are reached from a survey of issues from 1986-1992
of the quarterly newsletter Carpatho-Rusyn American, and interviews
with Prof. Paul R. Magocsi of the University of Toronto and Prof. Paul J.
Best of Southern Connecticut State University as well as other literature
cited in the references section at the end of this paper. The available
literature on this subject in North America is, admittedly, scant. What
does exist is largely written by Magocsi and/or produced under the
auspices of the Carpatho-Rusyn Research Center (which is led by
Magocsi) or, to a much lesser extent, affiliated with Best's CarpathoSlavic Studies Group.
5.
There is also a roughly 30,000-member Ruthenian community in the
Vojvodina region of Serbia. This diaspora community served as an important cultural role model for the Carpatho-Ruthenian community in the
homeland, and there had been some contact between the Vojvodinian
"Rusyn Matka" Society and other nationalist groups. But given the small
size of the Ruthenian diaspora in Serbia and, more importantly, the
political conditions prevailing in the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s,
they played a small direct role in the return of nationalism in the homeland. There is also a Carpatho-Ruthenian community in Ontario, Canada,
but for all intents and purposes it can be considered one with the American community.
6.
The Byzantine (a.k.a., "Ruthenian" or "Carpatho-Rusyn") Catholic
Church (the metropolia of which is in Pittsburgh and which is jurisdic-
157
tionally subordinate to the Vatican) is much larger and has been much
more active in nationalist affairs than the American Carpatho-Rusyn
Greek Catholic Orthodox Church (based in Johnstown, Pennsylvania and
which is subordinate to the Patriarchate of Constantinople). Most of the
Eastern Orthodox Carpatho-Ruthenians in the U.S. belong to either the
Russian Orthodox Church (in parishes of both the Patriarchal Exarchate
and the old Metropolia) or the autocephalous Orthodox Church of
America. As such, the Eastern Orthodox are generally not directly engaged with the question of Carpatho-Ruthenian nationalism.
7.
This formula becomes more complicated with the achievement of Slovak
independence at the end of 1992, but is still valid up to the end of the
period covered by this study.
8.
The anti-Ukrainian orientation was useful in both Ukraine and Slovakia,
since in both places the Carpatho-Ruthenians had been officially designated as being Ukrainian. Since there had been little attempt to argue that
the PresOv region Carpatho-Ruthenians are actually Slovaks, an antiSlovak orientation would not have been particularly useful.
9.
By this definition, the author of the present article might be included in
this number.
REFERENCES
(Note: CRA = Carpatho-Rusyn American)
Best, Paul J. 1990. "Three Essays on the Lemko Question." Contributions of
the Carpatho-Rusyn Studies Group to the IV World Congress for Soviet &
East European Studies. New Haven [Carpatho-Rusyn Studies Group].
1992. Newsletter of the Carpatho-Slavic Studies Group 3 (September).
Bycko, Ivan. 1986. "Manifesto of the Carpatho-Rusyns in Czechoslovakia."
CRA Summer: 4-5.
"Byzantine (Greek) Catholics in America and Europe." 1992. CRA Spring: 6-8
[letter exchange between Paul Robert Magocsi and Basil H. Losten, Ukrainian Catholic Bishop of Stamford].
"Declaration of the Carpatho-Rusyns Concerning Restoration of the
Transcarpathian Oblast to the Status of an Autonomous Republic." 1990.
CRA Spring: 4-5.
158
SMITH
Eriksen, Thomas Hylland. 1992. "Linguistic Hegemony and Minority Resistance." Journal of Peace Research 29(3) August: 3313-3332.
Fedynysynec, Volodymyr (Patricia Krafcik, trans.). 1990. "I am a Rusyn. My
Son is a Rusyn." CRA Winter: 8-Ю.
Hueglin, Thomas D. 1989. "Better Small and Beautiful than Big and Ugly?
Regionalism, Capitalism, and the Post-Industrial State." International Political Science Review 10(3): 209-221.
Jumba, Jeny. 1987. "In Memoriam: Andy Warhol (1928-1987)." CRA Spring: 4.
Keselica, Jozef. 1991. "The Warhol Story in Czechoslovakia." CRA Winter:
8-Ю.
Krafcik, Patricia A. 1988. "From the Editor." CRA Spring: 2.
"From the Editor." 1990a. CRA Spring: 2.
1990b. "Guest Editorial." CRA Winter: 2.
Маси, Pavel. 1975. "National Assimilation: The Case of the Rusyn-Ukrainians
of Czechoslovakia." East Central Europe 2(2): 101-121.
Magocsi, Paul Robert. 1978. The Shaping of a National
Subcarpathian Rus', 1848-1948. Cambridge, MA.
Identity:
. 1979. The Language Question Among Subcarpathian Rusyns.
Fairview, NJ.
. 1983. Galicia: A Historical Survey and Bibliographic Guide.
Toronto.
1986. "East Slavs in America." CRA Spring: 6-8.
1986. "The Carpatho-Rusyn Emblem and Flag." CRA Fall: 7-8.
. 1988. Carpatho-Rusyn Studies: An Annotated Bibliography,
vol. 1,1975-1984. New York.
1989. "Czechoslovakia Discovers Andy." CRA Fall: 4-7.
. 1990. "Greetings from the Carpatho-Rusyn Research Center."
CRA Spring: 9; Summer: 7; Winter: 8.
. 1991a. "Made or Remade in America: Nationality and Identity
Formation Among Carpatho-Rusyn Immigrants and their Descendants."
Coexistence 28: 335^8.
1991b. "From the President of the C-RRC." CRA Spring: 2.
1991c. "Andy Uncovered." CRA Winter: 4-5.
. 1991d. Carpatho-Rusyns: A Status Report Prepared for the
Institute for East-West Security Studies Conference on European Institutions and the Protection of National Minorities in East Central Europe
and the Balkans [Unpublished manuscript, Stirin, Prague, Czechoslovakia,
October 10-13].
159
1992. The Tasks of the Working Seminar or the First Congress of
the Rusyn Language [Unpublished text of speech delivered at Bardejovske
Kupele, Czechoslovakia, November 6-7,1992].
"Manifesto of the Carpatho-Rusyns in Czechoslovakia." 1990. CRA Spring: 47.
Michaels, Philip, сотр. and trans. 1990a. "Religion and the Revolution of
1989: The Orthodox Perspective." CRA Fall: 4.
. 1990b. "The Rusyn-Ukrainian Debate in the Presov Region."
CRA Winter: 4-5.
1990c. "The Rusyn-Ukrainian Debate in Soviet Transcarpathia."
CRA Winter: 5-6.
Motyl, Alexander J. 1990. Sovietology, Rationality, Nationality: Coming to
Grips With Nationalism in the USSR. New York.
. 1992. "The Modernity of Nationalism: Nations, States, and Nation-States in the Contemporary World." Journal of International Affairs
45(2) Winter: 307-323.
Nardy, S.B. 1989. "Soviet Nationality Policy in Carpatho-Ukraine since World
War П: The Hungarians of Sub-Carpathia." Hungarian Studies Review
16(1-2) Spring-Fall: 67-91.
Reisch, Alfred A. 1992a. "Transcarpathia's Hungarian Minority and the Autonomy Issue." Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty Research Report 7 February 1992: 17-23.
1992b. "Transcarpathia and Its Neighbors." Radio Free Europe/
Radio Liberty Research Report 14 February 1992: 4 3 ^ 7 .
"Revolution of 1989 Update." 1990-91. CRA Spring 1990: 7-9; Fall 1990: 9;
Winter 1990: 6-7; Spring 1991: 6-7; Winter 1991: 6-7.
Rothschild, Joseph. 1981. Ethnopolitics: A Conceptual Framework. New York.
Rusinko, Elaine. 1991. "Transcarpathian Response to Solzhenitsyn's Comments on Nationalities." CRA Spring: 8-9.
Seiler, P.L. 1989. "Peripheral Nationalism between Pluralism and Monism."
International Political Science Review 10(3) July: 191-207.
Sekellick, John T. 1992. "Catholic Ruthenians of the Byzantine Rite in the
United States of America." Diakonia 25(1): 19-59.
Shandor, Vincent. 1997. Carpatho-Ukraine in the Twentieth Century: A Political and Legal History. Cambridge, MA.
Smith, Raymond A. "Editor's Note." In Shandor 1997, pp. ix-xii.
"Society of Carpatho-Rusyns." 1992. CRA Spring: 4.
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Stein, Howard F. 1990. "Ethnographie Research on Rusyns in America." CRA
Summer: 7-10.
Subtelny, Orest. 1986. "East Slavs: 'Made in the U.S.A.'" CRA Summer: 4-5.
Szporluk, Roman. 1991. "The Soviet West—or Far Eastern Europe?" East
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Trembita 4(4) October.
(Re-)Writing History: Oleksandr SokolovsTcyi and the
Soviet Ukrainian Historical Novel
KATRIN BERTRAM
Reviewing developments in the early post-independence Ukrainian book market,
one recognizes, among other things, the following trend. On the one hand, there
was a rising interest in Ukrainian books, especially about Ukrainian history. On
the other hand, it became more and more difficult to publish books in the
Ukrainian language in competition with books in Russian (see, e.g., Pylypchuk
1993).
The early rising interest in Ukrainian historical novels (which is clear by
1992; see the best-seller list in "Knyhy-lidery" 1993), was not surprising
considering the importance of literature in Ukraine in general, and literature
about the nation's history in particular for the development of Ukrainian national and cultural identity.1
The need to search for national roots and to reexamine Ukrainian history
was intensified by the development of a national movement for independence
and the foundation of the Ukrainian state in 1991. Various works of fiction and
non-fiction about historical subjects, published during the past years, are proof
of this. In addition, there is a special interest in historical novels, which had
hardly reached the Soviet reader, because they were either not published at all
or only at a certain or in very small press runs in Soviet Ukraine. The main
reasons for this were the content (as was the case of the trilogy on Ivan Mazepa
by Bohdan Lepkyi [1872-1941]), the interpretation of the subject (e.g., Chôma
Rada by Panteleimon Kulish [1819-1897]), and the so-called "bourgeoisnationalistic" position of the author (e.g., the historical novels of Adrian
Kashchenko [1858-1921]), or some combination of all these.
One example of a very controversial reception of a Soviet Ukrainian historical novel is Oleksandr SokolovsTcyi's Bohun, first published in 1931, about the
events of the years 1648-1651 in Ukraine. This novel has recently been republished by the RespublikansTcyi Tsentr Dukhovnoï Kul'tury, in the series
"Ukraînsicyi istorychnyi roman," through Hlobus. Despite the limited popularity of Bohun, which nevertheless was republished in 1964 and 1971, the
reception of this novel can serve as an interesting example of the interplay of
official historiography and literature under the conditions of Soviet literary
politics.
Oleksandr SokolovsTcyi (1896-1938) 2 a member of the YseukrainsTca
spirka proletarsicykh pys'mennykiv (VUSSP), has not been regarded as one of
162
BERTRAM
the major Ukrainian writers either in Ukraine or in the Ukrainian diaspora, yet
his contribution to the development of historical writing in Soviet Ukraine
should not be overlooked. SokolovsTcyi had published some poems at the
beginning of the 1920s, which did not receive much attention. He did not take a
very active part in the literary debates of his time except for his participation in
the journal Zhyttia і revoliutsiia. He began his literary career in a period that
saw a renaissance of Ukrainian culture and the beginning of a growing interference in the sphere of culture by the Party and the state.
During and after the civil war, the young Soviet writers concentrated in their
works almost exclusively on contemporary topics. Only at the end of the 1920s
and the beginning of the 1930s can we recognize a new but unstable phase in
the development of Soviet historical fiction, which was often officially criticized for being a type of escape from contemporary problems into the past. In
this context writers focused on "revolutionary" topics, like peasants' revolts
and insurrections against the Tsar, which provided a historical foundation for
Soviet society. One of the first topics was the revolution of 1905, followed by
books about many other revolutionary events throughout the centuries.
The 1925 Party resolution concerning Party policy on literature still provided literary groups a considerable degree of freedom within Soviet society.
However, a more direct orientation towards the creation of a uniform, Partyguided, mass-oriented Soviet literature came into being in 1928, parallel to the
first five-year plan (1928-1933), which was to lay the foundations for the
"construction of socialism." There were first signs of this development during
the first Congress of Proletarian Writers (May 1928, Moscow), when the
"orientation" of small cultures toward larger ones—that is, Russian and proletarian culture—was propagated, which also included the orientation towards
the Russian cultural heritage. Furthermore, as a result of the resolution about
the availability of literature to a large readership (28 December 1928), publishing houses started to favor authors who followed the Party line.3
The "unmasking" of the "Soiuz Vyzvolennia Ukrainy" in 1929, followed by
the "exposure" of the "UkramsTcyi Natsional'nyi Tsentr," were to be understood
as signals not to tolerate the development of non-Russian national movements
and as a reaction against the growing ukrainianization, which was proclaimed
in 1923.4 In this context the thesis of "Ukrainian bourgeois nationalism" as a
political term was established at the end of the 1920s. The accusation of
cooperating with "nationalist organizations" or of supporting "bourgeois-nationalist" positions in literature was first directed against writers and critics
who actively took part in the literary discussions from 1925 to 1928. These
writers and critics were in favor of the development of Ukrainian literature as a
national literature in the context of European culture, but independent of Party
guidelines. The Party leadership regarded this as a kind of separatism and
consequently Mykola Khvyl'ovyi's "Her1 vid Moskvy" ('Away from Moscow')
was interpreted not so much as a literary, but as a political slogan.
(RE-)WRITING HISTORY
163
The number of arrests, which began to take place already after the 1929
"exposure" of "nationalist" organizations, increased in 1933 after the campaign
against Mykola Skrypnyk, whose activities as People's Komissar of Education
(Narkom osvity) from 1927 to 1933 were oriented towards communist, but
independent cultural politics in Ukraine, and after the suicide of Khvyl'ovyi.5
This time, especially with regard to historical novels, is a time of transition
in Ukrainian literature. Because of the literary debates and the political power
play of that time, there was new pressure on writers to adapt their interpretation
and presentation of historical events to the new "Soviet interpretation" and to
push back all "bourgeois and populistic elements" in literature. Because of
historians' debates, writers were urged to juxtapose their own Marxist-based
works to the theories of Mykhailo HrushevsTcyi and later of Ievhen IavorsTcyi.6
It is against this literary-political background that SokolovsTcyi turned to
writing historical novels. Although SokolovsTcyi was one of the first writers to
give expression to "narodnytstvo" in Soviet Ukrainian historical fiction, he did
not receive much critical attention for his novels during his lifetime.
SokolovsTtyi apparently had been attracted by this subject because of his
experience of life as he had been imprisoned in 1915 by the Tsarist and in 1918
by the German government because of his political affiliations. He also seemed
to have experienced a kind of mental kinship with the narodovol'tsi, especially
concerning their ideals and strengths.
Between 1928 and 1934 SokolovsTtyi published four novels, which were
based on extensive source material, as a series about the narodovol'tsi (Pershi
khorobri, 1928; Nova zbroia, 1932; Rokovani na smert', 1933; Buntari, 1934).
His novel Pershi khorobri won a prize as the best novel for young adults in
1927 in Ukraine and was then published the following year as a separate book.
These novels won some amount of recognition, at least after SokolovsTcyi's
rehabilitation, which is shown by the 1967 translation of his novels Rokovani
na smert' and Nova zbroia into Russian.
Nevertheless, it is probably SokolovsTcyi's most important and recognized
contribution to Soviet Ukrainian historical fiction to have introduced the topic
of narodnytstvo and to have influenced the evolution of the genre of the
historical novel. With his novel Bohun, which was published in 1931 in Kyiv
and Kharkiv, SokolovsTcyi turned to mid-seventeenth-century Ukrainian history, to the turbulent period under Hetman Bohdan KhmelhytsTcyi. By choosing the time of Khmernytsicyi as his subject for Bohun, SokolovsTcyi turned to
a historical period that is very relevant to the Ukrainian national consciousness.
This historical period was considered to be essential from both a Tsarist and a
Soviet point of view and like other transition periods in history has often been
interpreted differently depending on the dominant ideology of the time.
SokolovsTcyi as a Soviet writer was expected to use his art to reject the
"bourgeois tendencies" and "Ukrainian chauvinism" in light of the theory of
class struggle (Pulynets' 1931). In addition the "Khmel'nyshchyna" was even
officially recommended for literary interpretation.7 The publication of Bohun
164
BERTRAM
coincides with the publication of other historical novels about the 17th and 18th
century like V. Tal's Nadzvychaini pryhody bursakiv (1929), H. Babenko's
Shliakhom burkhlyvym (1931), and Zinaida Tulub's Liudolovy (1934).
Because there are no manuscripts (or none that can be located), it cannot
definitively be determined when the author began his work on the novel.8 Yet
it is probable that he began in the second half of the 1920s, that is, during the
period of ukrainianization. SokolovsTcyi, who worked as a research assistant in
the Museum of the 1917 Revolution, was very familiar with the available
historical sources about the Khmel'nyshchyna. His plans, which were never
realized, to continue his work about the Ukrainian Cossacks from the time of
KhmeinytsTcyi to the time of the 1917 revolution, suggest that he interpreted
the conflict between Ukraine and Poland in the 17th century as a kind of
forerunner of the revolutionary movement of his own time.9
Bohun consists of four parts. It begins with a depiction of the historical
setting and a brief description of mid-seventeenth-century East-bank Ukraine.
It then turns to the life of its characters, who experience the events between
1648 and 1651 from different perspectives. Bohun is shown as an advocate of
the interests of the common people, romantic and self-sacrificing in his
struggle for freedom and justice, although Sokolovslcyi never shows clearly
whether this is a struggle against social or national oppression, or both. Bohun
is spontaneous in his reactions and distrustful and suspicious both of the
Cossack upper class and the Polish nobility. The relationship between Bohun—
who in SokolovsTcyi's interpretation trusts his own, that is Ukrainian, strength
and rejects any kind of an alliance, especially with the Tatars (and the death of
Oksana at the end of the novel emphasizes this position)—and KhmeFnytsicyi,
who is shown as an able diplomat and military leader, became one of the most
debated problems and was critical for the reception of the novel. For
SokolovsTiyi himself, this relationship between Bohun and KhmeinytsTcyi is a
dialectical unity of "spontaneity" and "consciousness," despite several clashes
between Bohun and the hetman.
The novel, which was planned to be the beginning of a work in several
volumes, ends with the defeat of the Ukrainian army because of its betrayal by
the Tatars at Berestechko and the provisional takeover of the hetmanate by
Bohun. In this respect SokolovsTcyi's interpretation differs from both contemporary historical novels like Adrian Kashchenko and Hnat Khotkevych (1877—
1938), as well as that of later writers who wrote about the historical period, like
Oleksandr Korniichuk (1905-1972), Iakiv Kachura (1897-1943), Petro Panch
(1891-1979), Natan Rybak (1913-1978), Ivan Le (1895-1978), among
others.10 In addition, it should be noted that Sokolovsicyi, as one of the first
Soviet writers to try to deal with this topic, avoided exploring the relationship
between Russia and Ukraine by breaking off his novel after the Battle of
Berestechko and thus creating an often criticized open-end to the book. He
preferred to concentrate on problems within Ukraine.
(RE-)WRrriNG HISTORY
165
Like any historical novelist, SokolovsTcyi had to solve the problem of the
language his characters should speak, of how to characterize them linguistically without causing problems of comprehension and without disturbing the
direct relationship of the subject matter to contemporary issues. In the tradition
of the Ukrainian historical novel, Sokolovsicyi introduces each chapter with
quotations from historical prose, poetry, or historical sources. By doing this he
on the one hand engenders the proper mood in the reader and, on the other
hand, he underlines his authority and strengthens his credibility. Unlike other
contemporary writers, he almost never uses archaic language, but instead uses
contemporary language for both narration and for dialogues. A general problem of historical fiction and especially fiction about the KhmelTiytsicyi period
is characterization by the use of different languages in order to differentiate the
characters nationally as well as socially. For this reason there is almost no
Ukrainian historical novel about this period that does not use the Polish language, especially to characterize the Polish nobility (the szlachta).
Sokolovsicyi also uses this technique and adds Polish words, phrases, and short
sentences to the text. But there are also Latin quotations, which characterize the
Roman Catholic Church. But he does not use direct quotations from historical
sources in the narrative text, as Natan Rybak did in his Pereiaslavs'ka Rada
(1948-53), because SokolovsTcyi wanted to ensure comprehensibility.
Sokolovsicyi almost exclusively uses Cyrillic letters for Polish expressions
and adds the translation in the text or as an annotation, although from time to
time he uses Latin letters and assumes the knowledge of the Latin alphabet and
of some Polish phrases. He also distinguishes between his Ukrainian characters
by the style and dialect they use. It is obvious that ordinary Cossacks and
peasants often use proverbs and vernacular phrases, which are also a concession to the officially expected narodnist', i.e., nearness to the people.
Although the Khmelnyshchyna had already been dealt with in various ways
in Ukrainian literature, SokolovsTcyi's novel in general showed little influence
of its predecessors.11 Only the impact of the Polish novel Ogniem i mieczem
("With Fire and Sword," 1884) by Henrik Sienkiewicz and A. Kashchenko's
historical novels, especially Bortsi za pravdu ("Fighters for the Just Cause,"
1913) is obvious. Sienkiewicz, a Polish writer, wrote in his Ogniem i mieczem
about the military conflict between Ukraine and Poland from a very
Polonocentric, patriotic perspective. Consequently, his book was often understood by Ukrainian novelists as having disregarded Ukraine and the Cossacks
and thereby provoked numerous literary responses and references.
SokolovsTcyi refers to Sienkiewicz's novel when he describes the actions of
Polish magnates, especially Jarema Wiśniowecki, against the Ukrainian population as fighting "ogniem i mieczem." There also are obvious parallels between the two novels with regard to the plot and the configuration (cf., for
example, the relationship between Skrzetuski, Helena, and Bohun in
Sienkiewicz's work, and Bohun, Oksana, and Charnetfskyi in SokolovsTcyi's).
166
BERTRAM
A similar direct allusion to Kashchenko's novel Bortsi za pravdu (1913),
which has the life of Bohun as its subject, cannot be detected, although
SokolovsTcyi actually was later accused of "Kashchenkivshchyna" (that is,
committing the same "errors" that Kashchenko had been accused of). Nevertheless, it is probable that SokolovsTcyi was familiar with Kashchenko's novel,
which had been very popular in the 1920s. The characterization of Bohun in
Kashchenko's novel does not seem to be without influence on the character in
SokolovsTcyi's work.
With regard to reception, it is interesting to note that although Bohun,
published in 1931 in a pressrun of 10,000 copies, belongs to the more remarkable of the historical novels produced by Soviet Ukrainian literature in the
1930s, it was not well received by contemporary critics.12 Once the state of
contemporary Soviet historiography and the influence of the Marxist historian
Mikhail Pokrovskii are taken into account, this reaction becomes more understandable. Pokrovskii's thesis of "history as past politics" and his insufficient
consideration of the role of nationalism in history, led to an official characterization of Khmeinytsicyi as a traitor to the cause of the Ukrainian peasants. He,
along with the Cossack upper class, took advantage of the peasants' striving for
social liberation in order to obtain and secure their privileges (Bol'shaia 1935,
59:816-18). Instead, Ivan Bohun, especially because he did not take the oath to
the Tsar, and Danylo Nechai were considered to be true popular heroes. The
union with Russia in 1654 was regarded as a relationship between two feudal
systems, which was the beginning of the colonization of Ukraine and an
absolute "evil" for the Ukrainian people.13 It was in this context that the critics
attacked the characterization of KhmernytsTcyi in SokolovsTcyi's novel and
blamed the author for idealizing the hetman and the Cossacks in the tradition of
"bourgeois-nationalist" literature and accused him of the aforementioned
"Kashchenkivshchyna."14
Sokolovsicyi was also accused of nationalist distortion of history. This
charge was based on the first volume of the official Istoriia Ukrainy (1932), in
which the defeat at Berestechko was not the result of the flight of the Tatars,
but was due to the flight of Khmelnytsicyi, who was afraid of a Cossack
uprising. The author was especially criticized for his portrayal of the relationship between Bohun and KhmeinytsTcyi. The critics were of the opinion that
despite his steady mistrust, Bohun did not strongly enough oppose the exploitation of the people by the upper class.
This last reproach was important for the further reception of the novel.
Although his interpretation was apparently ahead of his time, official historiography changed during the period when Stalin's power was being consolidated
so quickly that it seemed to be almost impossible to find the "correct," partyline interpretation of historical events at the "right" time and literary canon.
Moreover, because of tuberculosis and his arrest in 1938, SokolovsTcyi was not
able either to finish his literary project or, like many other authors, to rewrite
his book according to the changing party line.15
167
Finally, Soviet literary criticism considered the historical novels of the early
1930s for a long time to be examples of a preliminary stage in the development
of the historical novel and not the beginnings of it. This fact, as well as other
political and cultural changes could be one explanation of the many years of
rejection and non-publication of these books and the frequent shift of perception with regard to these novels. It also makes these books all the more
interesting in the present time of transition in the formerly Soviet republics,
because they were also written in a time of great transition. The reorientation of
Soviet historiography began in 1934 with remarks about the draft of the textbook History of the Soviet Union, which referred to the colonialization role of
Russian tsarism, but at the same time emphasized the need to portray the
history of Russia in close connection with the history of other peoples of the
USSR and vice-versa.
In 1938, at the time of the publication of the Kratkii kurs istorii VKP(b),
there was a condemnation of Pokrovskii's position along with a revision of his
view on the role of historic personalities in history. For Ukraine, these were the
first clear signs of a re-evaluation of the union with Russia and of
KhmernytsTcyi's role in this process. Sokolovsicyi's novel, criticized at the
beginning of the 1930s for its above-mentioned portrayal of the relationship
between KhmernytsTcyi and Bohun, was now regarded as "too independent"
and not having enough trust in KhmernytsTcyi's leadership and in his ability to
act in the interest of all Ukrainians. The official characterization of the hetman
thus changed from seeing him as a Ukrainian nobleman acting exclusively on
behalf of the upper class to a kind of a popular leader. In the context of the
changed political conditions mentioned above, the representation of arguments
between Khmeinytsicyi and his colonel by Sokolovsieyi obviously did not
encourage official praise and possible republication. In addition, the author was
once more accused of nationalism and non-Marxist interpretation of history
because Russian-Ukrainian relations were not reflected in the work.
In 1937 the union with Russia became the "lesser evil"; in 1939 the term
vozz'iednannia (reunification) was used for the first time, instead of
pryiednannia (annexation).16 It became standard from 1948 onward. Finally, in
1954 in the theses about the 3OOth anniversary of the "reunification of Ukraine
with Russia," the Act of Pereiaslav became the "lawful development of both
fraternal peoples." One of the well-known examples of this kind of interpretation is Natan Rybak's Pereiaslavs'ka Rada. Bohdan KhmelnytsTcyi was, like
Peter I or Ivan IV, integrated into the line of "revolutionary forebears" of the
Soviet Union and became part of the historical mythologization (cf. Roberts
1965).
Against this background, the re-evaluation and "correction" of the interpretation of historical events and of the actions of KhemeinytsTcyi, Bohun, or
others in fiction becomes more understandable. As early as 1936 Pravda (15
July) noticed that classical Ukrainian literature did not pay enough attention to
the Ukrainian-Polish conflict and so there would be a wide range of opportuni-
168
BERTRAM
ties for Soviet writers to deal with the subject. In 1938 Oleksandr Korniichuk
published his historical drama Bohdan Khmel'nyts'kyi, followed by Iakiv
Kachura's short story "Ivan Bohun" (1940), which in large part was based on
Sokolovsicyi's Bohun. Even though both works were first criticized because of
their positive evaluation of the union with Russia, their authors had noticed the
change in the Zeitgeist and after a short time they were canonized already as
exemplary in Soviet Ukrainian historical drama and prose.
In the 1940s and 1950s, however, SokolovsTcyi's novel is either not mentioned in works of literary criticism about the Ukrainian historical novel, or
seen in the traditions of "bourgeois-nationalist" literature. At the end of the
1950s and the beginning of the 1960s, there were signs of rehabilitation of the
author and his work (Korzh 1959; Syrotiuk 1964; Morhaienko 1971). Bohun
was published a second time as a single volume in 1964 and as volume two of
Sokolovsicyi's works (2 vols.) in 1971. In both cases we can only suggest why
these novels were republished. But, of course, we must view this in the light of
the Thaw, the steps towards a liberalization of society, the rehabilitation of
many writers and a new rise in interest in the Ukrainian historical novel in the
1960s and 1970s with works by Semen Skliarenko (1901-1962), Pavlo
Zahrebel'nyi (b. 1924), Roman Ivanchuk (b. 1929), and others.
The novel was published by the publishing house "Molod"' in 1964 with a
pressrun of 40,000 copies, a large number, considering the book was practically banned for over thirty years. In this context it is interesting that this press
published in the same year the trilogy Bohdan Khmel'nyts'kyi by Mykhailo
Starytsicyi (50,000 copies). In 1971 the republication oî Bohun had a run of
30,000 copies. No major changes can be traced between the publication of
1964 and 1971. (Unfortunately, it is not possible to compare the edition of 1931
and the manuscript version with later editions, because I have been unable to
obtain either.)
The criticism of this historical novel in the 1960s and 1970s concentrated on
the aesthetic quality of the work in the context of the time in which it was
created. Now, the historiography of the time was mostly blamed for
Sokolovsicyi's "ideological mistakes" in the creation of his historical characters and his emphasis on Ukrainian independence, as well as the mistrust he
portrayed of all Ukraine's allies. Nevertheless, a certain reservation is recognizable, which could be due to the inadequate portrayal of Ukrainian-Russian
relations, and which seems to intensify after the 1972 change in political power
in Ukraine.17
The recent edition of Bohun, will show whether this text, first published in
1931, can still reach a reader today. Although the novel is not one of the
outstanding examples of Ukrainian historical fiction, it is still in many respects
a remarkable book despite—or rather because of—its controversial reception
in the past. Post-independence Ukrainian interest in both fiction and nonfiction historical literature creates a favorable situation for the reception of the
novel. This interest is also due to the fact that people feel that their knowledge
169
is somewhat inadequate and want to know "the truth" and they want to be
provided with the "correct" interpretation of Ukrainian history, which is quite
similar to the situation in the 1930s.18
This search for views that are new or, more importantly, differ from past
official Soviet interpretations, is leading not only to new publications, but also
to many republications, especially of those novels that were not available at all
or were could be obtained only with great difficulty. SokolovsTcyi's novels
about "narodnytstvo" were well received in the USSR, but Bohun apparently
implied Ukrainian national values, which were suspect to Soviet censorship.
The history of the reception of this novel now seems to be a recommendation
for publishers as well as for readers.19
NOTES
1.
As George Luckyj points out, Ukrainian literature, " . . . fulfilled many
functions, because... it was not only a vehicle for ideas, but also a
potent instrument of education in history, language and political
t h e o r y . . . " (1990, 23).
2.
Soviet sources such as Pys'mennyky Radians'koï Ukrainy: bibliohrafichnyi dovidnyk (Kyiv, 1988) and Ukraïns'kyi Radians'kyi Entsyklopedychnyi Slovnyk (vol. 3; Kyiv, 1987) state, similar to the biographical
information in literary studies, that SokolovsTcyi died on 29 August 1938
from tuberculosis. Only Ageieva 1989 and Slavutych 1956 mentioned
SokolovsTcyi's arrest and death in prison.
3.
On Party interference in Ukrainian culture, see Luckyj 1990 and
Nykolyshyn 1947. Based on extensive material, they provide a useful
overview of the literary and political conditions during the first few
decades of Soviet rule in Ukraine.
4.
Nykolyshyn (1947, 17) characterizes the years from 1925 to 1928 as the
height of ukrainianization.
5.
Luckyj 1987 states that during the purges in the 1930s, 254 writers
perished in Ukraine.
6.
This resulted in "counternovels." These used the same topic and similar
characters and plot, but differed in the presentation of positive and negative characterization. A special example of this is the novel Ogniem i
mieczem by the Polish writer Henryk Sienkiewicz, which was often
attacked by Ukrainian writers. Sokolovsicyi's Bohun should, because of
its topic, be seen as an early Soviet polemic with Sienkiewicz. This
170
BERTRAM
"tradition" can also be traced in the works of later Ukrainian writers like
Iakiv Kachura. His Ivan Bohun (1940) was also meant as a "corrective"
to Sokolovsicyi's novel.
7.
Syrotiuk 1962 says that in Hart 1928 (11): 101-102 a Ust was published
of historical events and personalities recommended for literary interpretation. Bohdan KhmelnytsTcyi and his wars were included on this list.
8.
Korzh 1959 states that the manuscript is part of the library of the Kafedra
ukramslcoï literatury at Kharkiv University. My research has shown this
not to be the case. Morhaienko 1971 writes that only one booklet of the
manuscripts exists, but he does not mention where.
9.
Inter alia SokolovsTcyi planned to write the novels Dmytro Lyzohub,
Katorha, and Chervone kozatstvo. See Ageieva (1989, 214).
10.
While Kashchenko and Khodkevych still present the Treaty of Pereiaslav
as an annexation of Ukraine by Russia, which because of the negative
effect on the development of Ukraine was to be condemned, Kachura,
Korniichuk, and others interpret the treaty as a "glorious" unification of
both peoples.
11.
SokolovsTcyi stands alongside a few other Ukrainian writers who had
already written about the Khmel'nyshchyna and the Cossacks: Nikolai
Gogol' in Taras Bul'ba (1835), Panteleimon Kulish in Chorna Rada
(1845/47), Mykhailo StarytsTcyi in his historical plays and his trilogy
Bohdan Khmel'nyts'kyi (1895-97), as well as contemporary novels by A.
Kashchenko and H. Khodkevych.
12.
The author of the foreword to the Munich edition of the novel
(Sokolovsicyi 1957), stated that Sokolovsicyi had to revise the book even
before the first publication in 1931, because of publisher's demands.
Unfortunately, because of a lack of sources, it is not possible to discern
what exactly had to be changed.
13.
The influence of Pokrovskii's theory on Soviet and Ukrainian historiography is examined by, for example, Mazour 1971 and Velychenko 1992.
14.
Contemporary, but difficult to obtain, reviews of the novel include
Kovalenko 1932 and Tkachenko et al. 1932. Of note is the fact that as
late as 1991, in the afterword to the edition of Kashchenko's historical
short stories, the editor still blames the author for a tendentious interpretation of history.
15.
I. Le's Nalyvaiko (first edition, 1940) and P. Panch's Zaporozhsti (first
edition, 1946) were subsequently revised by the authors.
16.
For a general discussion of the interpretation of Ukrainian history, see
especially Velechenko 1992 and BraichevsTcyi 1979.
17.
The end of a more liberal cultural policy with the change in power in
1972 is neatly illustrated by the fact that Syrotiuk, who had a generally
171
positive opinion about Bohun in his 1964 study, changes his position in
his 1981 work, and sees the novel as a failure.
18.
As in the 1930s there is a "new" discovery and representation of national
history against the background of changed political and ideological conditions. In the 1930s, proletarian and later socialist realist literature tried
to reject "bourgeois tendencies" in literature with corresponding books.
Today, there is the aim to create a counterweight to canonized Soviet
historical fiction in order to support the development of a national consciousness based on a "correct" interpretation of national history.
19.
Which may well explain the 1996 republication of the volume by the
Ukrainian Center for Spiritual Culture (Ukrainsicyi tsentr dukhovno'i
kul'tury).
REFERENCES
Ageieva, V. 1989. "Oleksandr SokolovsTcyi." In Pys'mennyky Radians'ko'i
Ukrainy: 20-30 roky. Kyiv, pp. 197-215.
Bol'shaia sovetskaia entsiklopediia. 1935. vol. 59. Moscow.
BraichevsTcyi, M. 1979. Anschluß oder Wiedervereinigung. München.
"Knyhy-lidery. Pidsumky konkursu." 1993. Literaturna Ukraina 25 February
(8)4521:3.
Korzh, P. 1959. "Vidobrazhennia vyz'vol'noï borotby 1648-1654 rr. і
vozz'iednannia Ukrainy z Rossiieiu ν ukraïnsidi radianskii khudozhribistorychnii prozi." Ph.D. dissertation, Kharkiv university.
Kovalenko, B. 1932. "Natsdemivsica ideolohiia ν istorychnomu romani
ukrainslcoï radiansTcoï literatury." Za markso-lenins'ku krytyku 6.
Luckyj, G. S. N. 1987. Keeping the Record: Literary Purges in Soviet Ukraine.
Edmonton.
. 1990. Literary Politics in Soviet Ukraine, 1917-1934.
Durham.
Mazour, A. G. 1971. The Writing of History in the Soviet Union. Stanford.
Morhaienko, P. 1971. "Zhyttia і tvorchisf Oleksandra SokolovsTraho," in
SokolovsTcyi 1971,1:5-17.
Nykolyshyn, S. 1947. Kul'tuma polityka bol'shevykiv і ukraïns'kyi kul'turnyi
protses. N.p.
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Pulynets', О. 1931. "О. Sokolovsicyi. 'Bohun.'" In Chervonyi shliakh 11-12:
112.
Pylypchuk, D. 1993. "Ne podzvin і ne trenos." Literaturna Ukraina 25 March
(12) 4525: 3.
Roberts, S. E. 1965. Soviet Historical Drama: Its Role in the Development of a
National Mythology. The Hague.
Slavutych, lar. 1956. The Muse in Prison. Jersey City.
SokolovsTcyi, Oleksandr. 1957. Bohun. Roman. Munich.
1964. Bohun. Kyiv.
1971. Tvory и dvokh tomalch. 2 vols. Kyiv.
1992. Bohun. Kyiv. [Publisher: Hlobus.]
. 1996. Bohun. Kyiv. [Publisher: Ukrainslcyi tsentr dukhovnoï
kul'tury.]
Syrotiuk, M. 1962. Ukrains'kyi radians'kyi istorychnyi roman. Problema istoriï
ta khudozhnoïpravdy. Kyiv.
. 1964. "Oleksandr Sokolovsicyi." In SokolovsTcyi 1964, pp.
374-97.
1981. Zhyvyi perehuk ephokh ta narodiv. Kyiv.
Tkachenko, I., I. Iurchenko, and L. Chernets'. 1932. "Kontrrevoliutsiia
Kashchenkivshchyna." Literaturna hazeta 14 February.
Velychenko, Stephen. 1992. "The Origins of the Official Soviet Interpretation
of Eastern Slavic History: A Case Study of Policy Formulation."
Forschungen zur osteuropäischen Geschichte 46: 221-53.
Polish Landowners in Volhynia, Podolia, and Kyiv Gubernia
(1863-1914) in Daniel Beauvois' La Bataille de la Terre
TADEUSZ EPSZTEIN
WALKA O ZIEMIE: SZLACHTA POLSKA NA UKRAINIE
PRAWOBRZEŻNEJ POMIĘDZY CARATEM A LUDEM
UKRAIŃSKIM, 1863-1914. Daniel Beauvois. Trans. Krzysztof
Rutkowski. Sejny: Fundacja Pogranicze, 1996. 302 pp. ISBN
8390130386. [Translation of La bataille de la Terre en Ukraine,
1863-1914. Les Polonais et les conflits socio-ethniques. Lille:
Presses Universitaires de Lille, 1993.]
Daniel Beauvois should be included among the most distinguished Western
European historians specializing in the history of Poland. His importance is due
to the fact that he focused his attention on a field almost nonexistent in Polish
historiography until recent times, that is, the fate of the Poles in the 19th
century in the former eastern Borderlands (the "Kresy") of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth.1 Beauvois' most important studies include his
doctoral dissertation on the Vilnius school district in the period 1803-1832 as
well as two complementary works on the Poles of the three south-western
gubernias of the Tsarist empire—Volhynia, Podolia, and Kyiv Gubernia during
the inter-insurrectionary period as well as after the January Uprising.2 This
"trilogy" about the Poles in the Kresy as well as an impressive list of articles
and lesser studies have established Beauvois as the preeminent specialist in the
history of this region of Europe.
Beauvois' La Bataille de la Terre deals with the Poles of Russian Ukraine in
the period after the January Uprising. In old Polish terminology, "Ukraine"
often had two meanings: it replaced the Russian term "Kyiv Gubernia" (just as
"Podole" replaced "Podolia Gubernia" or "Wołyń" replaced "Volhynia
Gubernia"). To a lesser extent, the term "Ukraine" was also used to identify all
three southwestern (from a Moscow-centric point of view) gubernias in the
Russian Empire. Prior to World War I, the term "Right-Bank Ukraine" appeared to distinguish this region from the remaining regions of Ukraine. This
last definition is used in the Polish translation of Beauvois' study.
The book has been widely reviewed since the original French text appeared
in 1993, so I am limiting my observations here to some very particular questions, but will examine them in depth.3 Just as in Beauvois' two previous
studies, this work is based on a broad source base—above all on archival
174
EPSZTEIN
materials in Kyiv, Moscow, and St. Petersburg. Among the sources used are
official correspondence and reports of the tsarist administration (governorsgeneral of Kyiv and the governors of the individual gubernias) in addition to
police files. A second category of source material is found in Polish sources in
manuscript and print form, for example, memoirs and press sources (mainly
'Kraj' and 'Dziennik Kijowski'). The author had access to a large quantity of
printed material and studies prepared by the Russian civil service and he also
utilized the extensive secondary literature on the subject (mainly in Russian
and Polish). One cannot add much more to the bibliography of this book in
terms of the areas of sources just mentioned. It is a pity, though, that the author
could not draw to a greater extent upon the archives of the local administrations. As well, there is an absence of primary sources of private provenance not
only from Ukrainian but also Polish collections. In particular, one would have
liked Beauvois to utilize the correspondence of the landed nobility whose
collections have been preserved in Polish libraries and archival centers. These
cannot be replaced by a few memoirs written mainly after World War Π.
Beauvois' main thesis is that all the economic, social, and ethnic problems
in Right-Bank Ukraine were tied to the struggle over land (p. 277). The author
selects as the dramatis personne of these struggles: the tsarist regime along
with the Russian landed nobility, the Polish landed nobility, the Ukrainian
peasantry, the former petty gentry, and the Jews. While the object of the
struggle was the same—land—the conflicts over it were played out among the
individual socio-ethnic groups. In the first chapter, the author focuses on
Russo-Polish antagonism, that is, the struggles between the tsarist regime and
the Polish landed nobility. In chapter two, we find a description of the PolishUkrainian conflict (the landed nobility versus the Ukrainian village). The
dramatis personae of the third chapter are, again, the Polish landed nobility,
who now are in conflict with the former petty gentry. In the last chapter, the
author analyzes the socio-economic situation of the Polish landed nobility and
the other Polish socio-economic groups (including the intelligentsia, estate
officials, and workers). As well, he presents data on colonists (the Czechs and
the Germans) and Jews in Right-Bank Ukraine.
One of the author's goals was to establish the extent of losses in terms of
acreage which the Polish landed nobility experienced during the years 1853 to
1914. An important resource aid turned out to be a specialized census undertaken in the years 1890 to 1892 by the Russian authorities in which data was
collected on Polish landowners in the three gubernias.4 Beauvois writes, "No
other document prepared before the year 1914 is so detailed in its description.
Included in it is reliable data indeed. The inquiry is based on fiscal data and in
all three gubernias it was drafted using the same standards" (p. 54). One must
agree that these data deserve attention due to the wealth of information provided; however we ought not to be too enthusiastic as regards its complete
accuracy and veracity. Though the inquiry was conducted simultaneously in all
three gubernias, nevertheless it was filled out in particular districts and
POLISH LANDOWNERS
175
gubernias by all sorts of individuals using different criteria. We do not know
from which sources the information was taken during the preparatory stages.
Beauvois suggests that it is possible that there were lists of taxpayers; I would
not exclude such a possibility, but it would have been more beneficial to see, as
well, other sources such as lists of landed proprietors drawn up by marshals of
the nobility. The fact is, in much of the minuteness of the detail of some of the
lists, we find, as it were, individuals owning between two and twenty desiatyns
of land. (I will hereafter use the abbreviation ds.; this equals 2.7 acres or 1.09
hectares.) This is found, for example, in the districts of Kyiv, Lypovets', and
Iampol', in which the proprietors can in no way be included into the ranks of the
landed nobility. The author does not satisfy our curiosity regarding the question
as to why the inquiry includes some petty landowners while the rest were
omitted. This is not the largest issue concerning this particular source since
even a cursory look at the data reveals serious deficiencies.
How can we explain the small amount of acreage (32,094 ds.) of the Polish
estates in the districts of Zaslav, if the estate there of Roman Sanguszko alone
encompassed 65,000 ds.? According to the data from 1909, the Poles in this
district had, in addition, more than 116,000 ds. In the 1890s they could hardly
have had less.5 A similar "diminution" or underestimation of the large estates
can be found in other districts. In the district of Uman', the estates of Marja
Czetwertyńska—which comprised 19,384 ds. in 1900—are missing.6 These
deficiencies are magnified by mistakes made by the author in using the source
materials: in the district of Kaniv, he has left out 31,113 ds., in the district of
Lutslc 100,000 ds., in the district of Kremenets', 10,000 ds. If we take into
account the above-mentioned figures, we obtain 3,323,466 ds. total, instead of
3,078,278 ds. as stated by the author (pp. 55-57).7 This last result must be
viewed as the lower limit of the overall acreage remaining in the hands of the
Polish landed nobility around 1890. The amount of land could in reality have
been even greater. In view of these conclusions, the register of 1893 that lists
3,525,482 ds. in the hands of the Poles seems to be much more accurate than
the register of 1890 (p. 62). We must point out that with regards to the
gubernias of Kyiv and Podolia, the difference between the inquiry of 1890 and
that of 1893 is not that great and can be explained by omissions. At the same
time, with regard to Volhynia it is difficult to speak of accidental omissions,
since the data from 1893 give the figure of almost 310,000 ds. more than the
1890 census. We cannot exclude the possibility of deliberate falsification in the
census of 1890 in order to hide the still existent dominance of Poles over
Russians in Volhynia with regard to the acreage they owned.
Beauvois' fascination for the 1890 register notwithstanding, we do have
other lists of landed proprietors for these three gubernias. Above all, one must
mention the list compiled by Andrzej Grabianka in 1860 in the course of
preparing for the forthcoming land reforms. With regard to detail, the data here
is not far inferior to the inquiry of 1890—in fact, it surpasses it as regards the
list of realty. We even find in it data on the number of "souls" (i.e., serfs) and a
176
EPSZTEIN
very detailed section on land characteristics and acreage. The one shortcoming
8
of Grabianka's list is a lack of first names alongside surnames of landowners.
Beginning with the 20th century, we have published lists of properties and
owners for all three gubernias. Beauvois is wrong in disregarding these
sources, since their attention to detail and accuracy—particularly those lists for
9
the gubernias of Podolia and Kyiv—is greater than the 1890 census (p. 54).
Archival sources from the beginning of the 20th century should still be extant
and should include the parts of the rural list of 1905 that encompassed data on
10
the big landowners. As well, we have general information on the number of
landowners and land owned by them from various years. This data, scattered
about in Russian and Polish printed sources, was, in the main, the fruit of work
done by the provincial statistical committees, but because they were set up in
individual gubernias at various times, it would be difficult to compare them and
to make any generalization for the whole region. Despite this, we cannot ignore
them because of the lack of better sources. They enable us, in part, to evaluate
results found in the inquiry of 1890 and the list of 1893. For example, according to the data from about the year 1887 in Podolia, there were 1,286 landed
proprietors of Polish extraction who owned 968,825 ds. The inquiry of 1890
11
gives similar figures: 1,257 owners and 942,584 ds. (pp. 55, 57). We have
information for the gubernia of Volhynia from 1885: at that time the Poles
owned there 889,833 ds.; the 1890 census shows in that gubernia only 390,832
ds. in Polish hands. However, the list of 1893 gives the figure there of
1,705,660 ds. 12 This is one more piece of evidence indicating serious shortcomings in the manuscript of the inquiry of 1890 for the gubernia of Volhynia. At
the same time, we see by this instance that only after using and comparing the
various sources will we be able to more clearly evaluate the source material.
Beauvois believes that the Polish ownership of land from 1890 to 1914 did
not undergo any changes. The author therefore does not detect the large transformation in ownership which took place in the three gubernias in the 1890s,
although the sources used in his study reveal this transformation. According to
the data of 1898, the Poles owned 3,086,932 ds. (p. 66). Taking under consideration the real acreage of Polish estates about the year 1890, then eight years
later, we see a serious decline. We reach similar conclusions after comparing
the inquiry of 1890 with published lists of owners from the beginning of the
20th century. In all the selected districts of the various gubernias there are
acreage losses; in a few cases, they are considerable (see Table 1).
The rate of sale of land owned by Poles at the turn of the 20th century
slowed down—this was influenced by the fact that Poles were allowed in 1905
to once more purchase land (albeit only from other Poles). Despite this,
a percentage of the property was still being parceled out and sold to the
peasants. In addition, due to economic conditions land was auctioned off to
non-Poles. Therefore, the optimistic conclusions of Włodzimierz Wakar and
Aleksander Darowski must be rejected, and it is from these two that Beauvois
takes his data stating that the Poles up to the outbreak of WWI still had
3 million ds. of land (p. 69). 13
POLISH LANDOWNERS
177
Table 1. Large estates owned by Poles in selected districts of the gubernias
of Volhynia (V), Podolia (P), and Kyiv (K) (in desiatyns)
District
Balta (P)
Bratslav (Ρ)
Dubno(V)
Rivne (V)
Skvira (К)
Kaniv (К)
Tarashcha (К)
Ushytsia (Ρ)
1890
-1900
1913
122,948
39,986
91,813
265,632
94,541
34,251
91,354
79,157
102,152
34,156
91,813
91,887
32,576
83,294
58,189
_
66,146
190,061
55,922
Source: Beauvois 1996, 57; Guldman 1888, 387^39, 548-681, 827-67; Iwański 1912, 32, 100,
134; Spisok naselennykh mest Kievskoi gubernii, 25—257; Spisok zemlevladelt'sev i arendatorov
Volinskoi gubernii, Sİ-ΊΑ, 216-27; the Tokarzewski-Karasiewicz archive from Hrushka (a private
collection with a list of landowners of the district of Ushytsia in 1904).
Information about the transferal of estates into Russian hands is frequently
given by Polish sources. As an example, I chose a few significant transactions
which took place in all three gubernias after 1890: Chornobyl (Radomyshl
district) of the Chodkiewiczes—29,532 ds.; Iurkivtsi and other properties
(Mohyliv district) of the Sulatyckis—10,896 ds.; Zahnitkiv (Olhopil district) of
the Starzyńskis—3,563 ds.; VysotsTc (Rivne district) of the Rulikowskis—
35,920 ds.; in toto, 79,911 ds. were sold.14
The picture of relations between the manor and the village as presented in
Daniel Beauvois' study is totally negative; there is no bright side to be seen in
it. We must agree with the author about many things since, of course, the
peasants on the one hand were being courted and simultaneously hoodwinked
by the tsarist administration and economically exploited by the landed aristocracy. This was not a phenomenon limited to the lands of Right-Bank Ukraine,
but was found throughout the entire empire. One must also remember that
compared to other regions of the empire, the Ukrainian peasant was treated
better by the tsarist administration due to the latter's anti-Polish policy.
Beauvois sees the main cause for disagreements between the village and the
manor in the antagonism over land which grew in stages due to "land hunger."
He claims that the peasantry owned less than half of the land that a few
thousand large landholders owned (pp. 84, 97, 280). This simply is not true,
since the total acreage of apportioned land was only minimally smaller than the
acreage of private land. The latter land, it is true, was mainly owned by the
large landowners; however, with time it increasingly was owned by peasants
(see Table 2).
EPSZTEIN
178
Table 2. The distribution of land in the gubernias of Volhynia, Podolia, and
Kyiv (in thousands of desiatyns).
Gubernia
"Apportioned
land"
Private land
Peasant
Total
Other categories
of ownership
Total
Volhynia
Podolia
Kyiv
2,298.9
1,754.2
2,106.8
285.1
220.4
319.2
2,819.9
1,625.8
2,092.5
653.4
277.1
424.4
5,772.2
3,657.1
4,623.7
Total
6,159.9
824.7
6,538.2
1,354.9
14,053.0
Source: Kondrafev 1923, 54.
According to the data from 1911, the peasants already owned 1,241 thousand ds. of private land in the three gubernias, that is, together with the
apportioned land they occupied at the time i.e. 7,400 thousand ds. At that time,
the Polish and Russian big landowners did not exceed in ownership terms
4,500 thousand ds.15 As well, we must emphasize that almost all the private
land owned by the peasants belonged previously to the landed nobility, therefore we cannot agree that, "the purchase of land by the peasants was almost
impossible" (p. 116).
The utile value of peasant land was different from that of the nobility. For
the peasantry, arable land decidedly dominated their holdings, while for the
large landholders the percentage of forests, pasture land, and waste land in
terms of the total was at times quite large. According to the 1890 census, in
Volhynia Gubernia over half (710,000 ds.) of the land owned by the Poles was
forests, pasture land, or waste land (of this, forests represented 625,000 ds.). In
Kyiv Gubernia the situation was a bit better; forests (245,000 ds.) and waste
land (44,000 ds.) represented only 33.8% of total land in the hands of the
Poles.16 The inquiry of 1890 does not provide such data for Podolia but we can
assume that the situation there was even better than in Kyiv Gubernia since
Podolia Gubernia was the least deforested. Taking under consideration even
these partial comparisons, we see that the amount of the arable land of the
nobility was much less than what the author assumes. Nonetheless, in comparison with the subdivided fields of the peasants, the lands of the nobility at times
seemed vast and were an object of envy.
Beauvois strives to reinforce his arguments by proving that the state of the
Ukrainian village was catastrophic. To prove his case, he uses various statistical data whose meaning in reality is at times different from the author's
observations. According to Beauvois, cattle and sheep breeding could not
evolve in Ukraine because peasant farms "were being stifled due to the rather
small size of plots" which did not have adequate pasture land whereas hog
raising businesses expanded quicker because they did not need pasture land. As
POLISH LANDOWNERS
179
proof, the author presents random data from the years 1863-1883 on the
evolution of animal husbandry in Right-Bank Ukraine (pp. 102-103, 117).
Observing the changes in farm animal stock in the entire region of the former
Polish lands during the years 1863-1914, we observe certain regularities appearing in the entire region, and others, typical only of a percentage of the
whole; for example, in the entire region from the beginning to end of the 19th
century there was a decrease in sheep husbandry; the number of horses and
cattle, however, increased. The state of hog farming was more complex. For
example, in the Prussian partitioned zone the number of swine in the years
1870-1913 rose repeatedly. In Volhynia, Podolia, and Kyiv Gubernias, it rose
from 1.3 million head in 1883 to 1.5 million in 1913. At the same time, in the
Congress Kingdom of Poland, a serious collapse in animal husbandry took
place.17 The drawback of this statistic is that in comparing the changes in
animal husbandry businesses on the farms of the nobility and peasantry,
Beauvois provides incomplete information. For example, on the basis of
Beauvois' presentation it is difficult to prove that the growth of animal husbandry businesses in the three gubernias was more dependent on the overall
agricultural structure than, for instance, on the general economic situation of
the three gubernias and neighboring regions.
I would not completely agree with the author that the desire for land was the
main problem for the Ukrainian village. Rather, I see the root of the problem as
a socio-economic one: overpopulation in the countryside, a surplus of farm
labor, the low level of agricultural know-how, the defective structure of rural
ownership (peasant and noble), and the low level of urbanization and industrialization. Agriculture in the three gubernias was extensive and much less
productive than in the Congress Kingdom of Poland, not to speak of Great
Poland (Wielka Polska).
The author sees the resolution to the many problems of the land question in
the abolition of the large landholdings. I will not discuss the рифове and
effects of such an endeavor, but will bring the reader's attention to another
problem which is not discussed in the book. The question of reconstruction and
reform of the agricultural economy was not entirely foreign to the nobility of
the Kresy. At the turn of the 20th century, more and more was being said and
written on the necessity of change. On the one hand, there were attempts to
modernize existing farms, introducing crop rotation (in place of the generally
accepted three field system up to the beginning of the 20th century ), mechanization, and artificial and natural fertilizers. At the same time, there was a
realization that the large estates were simply inefficient and had low profits due
to the high cost of labor and inefficient management. The solution was seen in
the creation of smaller farm units (in the neighborhood of 100 to 200 ds.) that
were mechanized, industrialized, and geared toward intensive agricultural production.18 There was also an interest in the reconstruction of peasant farms. The
way to cure peasant agriculture was seen, above all, in the liquidation of
communes (obshchiny) on which the whole of the peasant economy had been
180
EPSZTEIN
based up to the beginning of the 20th century as well as easements and the
patchwork/checker-board manner prevalent for peasant farms. In place of the
peasant commune, it was suggested that a system of private farms be introduced. The agricultural units owned by Czech and German colonists were held
up as models of individual farms for the peasantry.19
In describing the conflicts of the Polish landed nobility with the former petty
gentry, the author argues that the landed proprietors not only took part in the
process by which the former petty gentry in the mid-19th century lost their
noble status, but also oppressed them and ejected them from their places of
abode after the 1863 Uprising (p. 131n). It seems to me that it is incorrect to
identify the entire former petty gentry with the class of rural tenants—the
majority of disagreements with the landed nobility arose from this latter social
group. At the same time, not all the rural tenants were of szlachta origin. The
statistics presented in Beauvois' Table A (p. 165) do not quell our doubts, since
we do not know the socio-legal origins of the people who were being included
in the ranks of the peasantry and urban middle class. For the author, nearly all
belonged to the former szlachta and it formed with the peasantry the same rural
community, but "the one difference between them depended on the fact that
surely the first live less spread out than the second" (p. 166). We cannot talk
about a uniform composition of this group unless alongside Orthodox and
Roman Catholic Christians, Jews are included. We can also assume that
amongst the landed tenants, there were some peasants and townsfolk who had
no szlachta antecedents. I do not understand why in the chapter dealing with
the conflicts of the Polish landed nobility with the former petty gentry, many
examples pertain exclusively to the Russian big landowners and even to the
Jews (e.g., pp. 154-55, 158, 168, 193). Should they also be expected to subscribe to "ancient traditions of the szlachta" when dealing with the rural tenants
(p. 155)?
The author believes that "in consequence of the ruthless behavior of the
Polish landed nobility towards the former petty gentry up to the beginning of the
20th century, a profound chasm was created between these two social groups"
and we read further that this attitude "significantly reduced the chances for coexistence within Polish society in Ukraine" (p. 190). Further on in his book, we
find no explanation in what way this "deep chasm" manifested itself. It also
would be difficult to find many instances where the former petty gentry took an
active role in the pogroms of Polish manors in the years 1917-1918. Rather, the
revolutionary period revealed a contrary manifestation, namely the solidarity of
the former petty gentry with the persecuted landed nobility. The presence of
members of the former szlachta, particularly Orthodox by religion, often more or
less russified, in the ranks of the local tsarist civil service, or later in the bureaucracy of Soviet Russia should not puzzle us since any attempt to free oneself
from the peasant village or small town environment was a form of social advancement for this social group. However, this phenomenon does not have much
to do with interactions linking this element with the landed nobility (p. 190).
POLISH LANDOWNERS
181
In his last chapter ("The Poles and socio-economic changes"), Beauvois
deals with, among other matters, various aspects of economic life in the three
aforementioned gubernias. Drawing his reader's attention to the growing profits of the landed nobility due to the increase in agricultural and industrial
output, he does not value the input into this phenomenon of other socioeconomic classes. Capital was not restricted to the very rich—from the point of
view of pure economics, such an assertion would be plain fiction. Lower social
groups, particularly the peasantry, also benefited from the increased prices of
agricultural products, derived benefit from the cultivation of sugar beets, and
the expansion of the food industry, including the sugar industry and flour
milling.20 In part, this money ended up drowned in alcohol and was foreordained to consumption, but not entirely—witness, for instance, the increase in
agricultural land owned by peasants.
It seems the author is right when he states that the term "Ukraine, the
granary of Russia" is more justly applied to the southern and south-eastern
gubernias than to the south-west (p. 221, footnote 16). Grain surpluses in the
three gubernias were relatively small: in the years 1909 to 1913 they did not
surpass 4% annually in Kyiv and Podolia Gubernias and 2.4% in Volhynia
Gubernia; at the same time they reached 30% in Kherson Gubernia.21
In discussing the role of the Poles in beet production, it is worth noting that
in the Kresy there were no "unending fields of sugar beets" (p. 231) since
compared to the total arable area, they represented an insignificant percentage:
in Kyiv Gubernia, 7.51%; in Podolia Gubernia 6.23%; and in Volhynia
Gubernia, only 1.64%. It is difficult to talk about a particular contribution of
the Poles in this field, since in Ukraine the practice of sugar beet cultivation
was so widespread that some farms even had their own sugar mills.22
The author quite rightly stresses the tragic consequences which the excessive expansion of the distillery industry—to a large extent owned by the very
wealthy—had on the general population. Just as with many other socio-economic problems, this was not exclusive to the three gubernias. The big landowners produced (to the end of the 19th century) more and more pure alcohol
throughout the entire expanse of the former lands of pre-partitions Poland. For
example, in the Congress Kingdom of Poland, in the years 1903/4 to 1910
alone, the number of distilleries grew from 356 to 499 and production doubled
(from approximately 74 million liters to 148 million liters), while in Galicia, in
the years 1900/1 to 1911, the number of distilleries rose from 694 to 858.23
Beauvois accuses the Poles and Russians of causing "ecological shock," the
result of a policy of wasteful exploitation of the forests. This criticism is
especially valid, keeping in mind the fact that in the years 1871-1913, forest
land in Ukraine was reduced by 1.7 million ds., while arable land increased
during this period by only 0.8 million ds.; thus, nearly 1 million ds. of previously forested lands were not utilized for agricultural purposes after felling.24
The author strongly criticizes the landed proprietors as a social class
(p. 235n). He spares from this criticism only the poorest element of this class
182
EPSZTEIN
because, "the owners of estates of medium size behaved in ways which were
not devoid in wisdom and knowledge; they were known for their moderation
and supported each other in cases where estates were threatened with ruin or
possession by Russians" (p. 246). These small landowners were not only good
to themselves but also to the peasants, hence, "as far as they are concerned, we
do not find any references to acts of cruelty towards the peasants" (ibid.). I
would dispute the assertion that relations with the peasants were dependent on
the size of estates. The estate officials of the rural leaseholders quite often
treated the rural population far worse than the large estate owners. This is not a
discerning analysis of the class of landed proprietors, but rather a mythologized
picture of life among a small number of the wealthier families. "Luxury strikes
the observer from all sides, one sees it by the number of house servants, by the
art collections, e t c . . . . The ladies spent the mornings and evenings busy with
their toilets, lacing up and unlacing their corsets" (pp. 237-38). This class not
only oppressed the peasants, the former petty gentry and collaborated with its
mortal enemy (the Russians), but as well "its one real concern was sugar beets
and grain. The power of money needed an alibi, to dress itself up in attire
brought down from the attic. That need degenerated into an obsession"
(p. 243). With this in mind, Beauvois characterizes the attempts of the Poles in
the partitioned lands to adopt a political initiative in 1905-1906 thusly: " . . . to
the very end of the epoch, this elite of the wealthiest believed that their way to
participate in public life represented a sort of community service, whereas in
relaity it represented a way of defending class interests" (p. 245). A final
comment on this question is illustrated by the quote: "The magnates in the year
1914 behaved in the same way as in the year 1895. Ubi bene ibi patria" [i.e.,
'where the estate is, there also is the fatherland'] (ibid.). At this juncture, the
author fails to answer the question of what possibilities were open to the Polish
landed nobility in the evolution of social, political, and cultural activity in
Right-Bank Ukraine during this period, and to what degree had the landed
proprietors attempted to exploit these possibilities? The author criticizes the
"welfare work" of the nobility believing that this was the result of class egoism.
Should every action in the economic realm by the landowner be viewed in the
same way? Is it impossible that the economic initiatives of the big landowners
also provided benefits for the other social groups in Right-Bank Ukraine?
It is a pity that in the study there was not enough space for a precise
description of the activities of the agricultural societies in the three gubernias,
since they provide an example of how the Poles were able to exploit existing
opportunities in the economic and social arena. The subject is treated in the
book only briefly and, I believe, incorrectly. Beauvois errs when stating that in
the three gubernias only one agricultural society was operating with its headquarters in Kyiv (pp. 243, 245). Such a situation existed only until 1898 when
the Podolian Agricultural Society in Vinnytsia was established. The following
societies were created in succeeding years: in 1900, the Agricultural Society in
Lutsic, in 1901 the Uman'-Lypovets' Agricultural Society in Uman' as well as
POLISH LANDOWNERS
183
the Agricultural Society in Rivne, in 1903 an Agricultural Society in Old
Kostiantyniv in Volhynia. A bit later, another society was set up in Volodymyrin-Volhynia. All these organizations were not branches of the Kyivan Society
but completely separate associations. Characterizing the activities of the Poles
in the Kyivan Society, the author wrote, "Polish memoirists ascribe a role
contrary to reality, as regards the participation (of the Poles—T. E.), in the
annual general meetings of the society, this means they attribute to them a
significant importance, forgetting that half the members were Russian" (p.
243). Leon Lipkowski, whose memoirs were used by Beauvois when writing
this section of his study, clearly states that the Society in Kyiv consisted
exclusively of Russians and "not all of them were even landowners"; only with
25
time were Poles permitted to join. If the Russian landed proprietors did not
need the cooperation of the Poles, they would not have let them participate in
this organization, and even more, they would not have let them share executive
powers within the associations. This was previously the case in the Agricultural
Society of Kyiv (established in 1874 but in operation from 1876) in which the
Poles for the first time since the Uprising of 1863—when they were removed
from all official posts and official positions—were permitted to fill important
positions. A longtime vice president of the Society was Leonard Janknowski
(up to 1896), later it was Józef Potocki, and, finally, from 1900 it was
Włodzimierz Grocholski. The role of Polish landowners in the newly created
societies at the turn of the 20th century was decidedly greater than the Kyivan
one. Though due to political considerations to 1905, Russians were chosen as
presidents, in reality, authority lay in the hands of the Poles, they also dominated the societies in terms of membership and executive authority. After 1905,
in the majority of societies (other than the Kyivan), the position of president
passed to Polish hands. The exception here was the Society in Rivne which
Roman Sanguszko headed from the beginning.26 The powerful role of the Poles
was evident as well in the committees of the agricultural exhibitions in the
various towns of the three gubernias. Even in the All-Russian exhibition in
Kyiv in 1913, it was the Poles who in the main were on the organizing
committee and it was Aleksander Tyszkiewicz (the president of Podolian Agricultural Society) who was elected president, the position of honorary president
being reserved for a Russian (Prince M. A. Kuriakin).27
The cultural patronage of the landed nobility does not receive any higher of
an appraisal than its economic performance. The author allots three sentences
in total to the subject, two of which are in footnote form (p. 242). According to
him, only a few landowners sponsored cultural and educational initiatives. The
size and dimensions of the patronage of the landed nobility can in theory be
guaged in a number of ways. This question, however, has not received sufficient attention in recent studies, so that it is difficult to precisely answer the
question of what the role was of the big landowners in financing Polish cultural
and educational institutions. Still, the question cannot be ignored, as Beauvois
does. In terms of the social consciousness of the region, larger donors and
184
EPSZTEIN
28
foundations were most clearly preserved in popular memory. The author is
mistaken when he writes that the patronage of the landed nobility affected the
Poles exclusively. There were specific cases as well as general initiatives
29
directed towards the ethnic Ukrainian population. One also should not forget
the cultural and academic activity pertaining to the history of Rus'. Many
landlords were archeological pioneers within the three gubernias, both financ30
ing research and took part in it. The fruit of this activity were academic
studies, articles, archeological collections (some of which were donated to state
museums in Kyiv and Odesa), collections of folk music, descriptions of customs, etc., which in part entered into the cultural heritage of Ukraine as a
31
whole.
We should not be surprised that there were so few philanthropists from
among the Poles with regard to official cultural-academic institutions in
Ukraine. The financing of these official institutions meant the de facto support
of the russification of the country. In addition, the input of the landed nobility
of the Kresy into cultural-academic initiatives in other parts of pre-partitioned
Poland was frowned upon up to 1905 and was practically forbidden by the
authorities. This is why many donations from the Russian partitioned zone had
32
to be declared anonymous.
Other than large donations and foundations, about which we know the most,
there existed another, even more massive form of aid to Polish culture. Substantial amounts of capital were transferred for the subscription of newspapers
and periodicals, the ordering of books, serial publications, etc. The majority of
homes of the landed nobility subscribed to at least a few tides in the Polish
language (e.g., "Kraj," "Słowo," "Kurier Warszawski," "Dziennik Kijowski,"
"Tygodnik Illustrowany," "Kłosy," etc.). Many landowners supported the majority of the more meritorious societies and cultural-scholarly organizations
functioning in the Polish lands; for example, from the three gubernias there
were thirty-four landed proprietors in the Society for Academic Courses in
Warsaw and of those, eight were lifetime members (with dues for lifetime
membership coming to 200 rubles); there were ten lifetime members from the
Kresy in the Society for the Advancement of Polish Agricultural Learning in
Cracow; in the Society for the Advancement of Polish Learning in L'viv,
amongst the founding members alone there were five landowners (with membership fees of 200 crowns); a founding member of the Mianowski Fund was
Włodzimierz Spasowicz who bequeathed 5,000 rubles to the Fund in 1906;
Konstanty Wołodkowicz donated substantially greater sums to the Fund in
1911 (38,000 rabies); Stanisław Dunin-Karwicki was a supporting member of
the Polish Sightseeing Society, and so forth.33
The last example of patronage of the landed nobility was the secret school
system maintained in Right-Bank Ukraine. It was not set up in 1905 but had
started to evolve already in the 1880s. It did not cease to exist in 1911—as
Beauvois suggests (p. 199)—but thrived till the war and Revolution, only to be
transformed into a legal network of Polish schools in the Kresy.34 The secret
POLISH LANDOWNERS
185
network of teaching encompassed mainly the Roman Catholic population: the
former petty gentry, house servants, laborers, peasants, intelligentsia. To a
lesser extent, it reached the primary schools of children from Orthodox families. Aside from large classes of pupils which more than often became the
object of tsarist repression, in almost every manor the education of the youth of
the landed nobility was at times combined with lessons for the children of
Roman Catholic servants. The large landowners only in part organized and
financed the secret network of teaching; the Polish intelligentsia played an
important role in this respect, especially in the cities—principally, Kyiv,
Uman', Zhytomyr, Vinnytsia, and Kam'ianets'-PodirsTcii.35
In the final sections of the study, Beauvois touches on the other social
classes of the three gubernias: the Polish intelligentsia, estate laborers, workers,
colonists, and Jews. Research has shown that the genealogy of the intelligentsia
was not only of szlachta origin—though in certain periods this predominated,
particularly in the Kresy. I disagree, however, that representatives of the
sz/acAfa-originated part of this group were recruited exclusively from the
legally verified nobility (p. 247). Neither should all estate officials be included
in the ranks of the intelligentsia, since this was a complex occupational group.
Included in this group were educated administrators of the large estates, the
middle tier personnel of the estate administration (estate managers, accountants, clerks), and employees of lower ranks (e.g., stewards). If we include
some of the more qualified administrators to this enlightened group, then it is
not clear whether clerks could be considered as members of the intelligentsia,
not to speak of farm labor overseers. Factory personnel (especially in sugar
refineries) represent a separate group. Where should we include the multitude
of private teachers and tutors that no manor could do without? We should also
remember that around the manor seat there usually existed a multitude of moreor-less impoverished relatives residing in the country or in towns or cities,
whose standard of living hinged on support from the manor. In such a milieu,
there is no lack of educated people who in no way can be excluded from the
ranks of the intelligentsia, although they seem to be in Beauvois' analysis.
Estate leaseholders should not be grouped with estate officials, since these
were two different social categories. Estate officials were wage earning employees of the administrations of landed estates, whereas estate leaseholders
rented estates on a fixed charge and farmed according to their own reckoning.
They possessed their own administration independent of the actual estate
owner. The leaseholders were also a very differentiated social group. We find
amongst them landowners simultaneously managing their own estates and
renting other lands, while others did not own their own land, but their affluence
and lifestyle resembled that of the wealthiest aristocracy. Finally, there were
many petty leaseholders who were even of peasant origin.
In various sections of the book, Beauvois calculates the number of Poles in
Right-Bank Ukraine. We read at first that the landed nobility at the beginning
of the 20th century numbered about 3,000 families that owned 100 ds. or more
186
EPSZTEIN
of land (in other words about 15,000 to 20,000 individuals; p. 235). I would be
more inclined to state that around 1900 the number of Polish landlords owning
more than 100 ds. ought to have been no more than 2,500 people since already
in 1890 this category of landowners consisted only of 2,652 individuals (p. 59).
In the grand total of this social group, I would put a limit of 15,000 people
(about the year 1900). In this context, the conclusions presented to us a few
pages later (p. 247) are surprising, when we discover that during the process of
land reform, the landed nobility numbered around 7,000 people. According to
Andrzej Grabianka's list from the year 1860, the total number of landlords in
the three gubernias came to 5,534, of which the Poles were over 5,000. In this
number, there were about 10% petty landowners, in other words, the large
landlords (together with their families) could have encompassed at that time
about 25,000 individuals.36 Thus, one must deduce that among the verified
nobility, the landed proprietors at that time represented a decidedly large
percentage of the whole than Beauvois claims. At the same time, I have doubts
whether it was possible for the nobility to maintain the same numbers from the
mid 19th century to the beginning of the 20th century. We cannot, as well,
regard the entire (verified) nobility as Poles, since a part of them were Russian
and denationalized individuals of Polish origin. With regard to these reservations and a lack of more precise statistical data, I would tend to avoid setting an
actual figure as to the population of the Polish intelligentsia in Right-Bank
Ukraine.
Similar problems arise when counting the total number of Poles in the three
gubernias. Beauvois questions the equation by some researchers of the number
of Catholics with the number of Poles, because of the existence of Ukrainian
Catholics (p. 247), that skew the numbers. I agree that the equation does not
work, but not on the basis of misidentification of Ukrainian Greek Catholics as
Polish Roman Catholics—categories that were carefully delineated—but rather
because there existed in Right-Bank Ukraine Orthodox communicants who
self-identified as Poles. The reality at that time was that the factor of religious
division in the area was much stronger than any national division, particularly
among the lower strata of society. The level of national consciousness, always
difficult to measure, was not necessarily defined by language (although it was a
criterion of statistics dealing with the question of nationality in the Russian
Empire) or allegiance to this or that socio-ethnic group. A more important
factor was one's connection to a particular cultural-religious tradition and a
parish community (Catholic, Orthodox, or other confessions). Undoubtedly,
the Roman Catholic communities, particularly where there were parishes,
seemed Polish. Although already small in number after the persecutions following the uprisings of 1830 and 1863, the entire Catholic clergy (in 1905,
there were 315) was Polish.37 Contact with the Roman Catholic Church meant
contact with Polishness, since sermons and prayers were delivered in Polish.
For this reason, it seems counter-intuitive to say that Roman Catholic priests up
to 1905 did nothing for the lower strata of the Polish population (p. 202). On
POLISH LANDOWNERS
187
the contrary, it was precisely the Roman Catholic Church that accomplished
the most in preserving the ethno-cultural identity of the former petty gentry and
peasants of Polish origin (although, according to Beauvois, there were no
Polish peasants in Right-Bank Ukraine).
In conclusion, I would like to draw the reader's attention to a few minor
mistakes and orthographic errors which I spotted in the text. Spasowicz's first
name was Włodzimierz and not Władysław (p. 176). Dr "A. J." is Antoni Józef
Rolle from Kam'ianets'-Podil's'kyi. Instead of Wygowski, it ought to be
Wyhowski (p. 158). It should be Buchny, not Buchną (p. 170); baicki, not
baltański (p. 184); Dołoteckie, not Dołocieki (p. 184); Rohoziński, not
Rogoziński (p. 207); Dzuryn, not Dziuryna (p. 188); Dzygówka, not Dzigówka
(p. 89). "Agricultural laborers" from the leaflet entitled "Associations" were
not estate leaseholders, but estate workers or estate officials (p. 200).
Despite these critical observations, Daniel Beauvois' study is a very important contribution to research into the history of the Poles in the Kresy. The
controversial contributions of the author, at times overlain with emotion, will
surely stimulate discussion and will bear fruit in successive articles and studies
enriching our knowledge of social and economic relations in Right-Bank
Ukraine. Many questions need further study, possibly even new evaluations,
but it is clear that the point of departure for research in this field for the
foreseeable future will be Beauvois' La Bataille de la Terre.
Translated from the Polish by Michael Żurowski
188
EPSZTEIN
NOTES
1.
From the mid-eighties, the number of academic studies on the subject of
the eastern Kresy in the 20th century is growing. Daniel Beauvois' books
have been complemented by many articles and dissertations. See for
example, Rychlik 1988,1990, and 1991; Zasztowt 1989,1990, and 1991;
and, Sikorska-Kulesza 1995.
2.
See "Works Cited" below for a relevant list of Beauvois' work. The page
numbers and quoted sections in this review article are taken from the
1996 Polish translation.
3.
See Bardach 1994.
4.
See "O chisle imenii."
5.
"Spisok zemlevladel'tsev і arendatorov Volinskoi gubernii," 81. Wakar
1917, 99.
6.
Iwański 1912, 51, 55.
7.
In La Bataille...
(Beauvois 1993), p. 63, only 3,138 ds. are given in the
district of Kaniv; in the Polish version (Beauvois 1996), the district of
Kaniv completely "disappears"—see p. 57 there.
8.
Manuscript in the library of the University of Cracow, no. 5985.
9.
"Spisok zemlevladel'tsev"; Guldman 1903; "Spisok naselennykh."
10.
Following the trail of this source material, I came across what might be
the archive of the Tokarzewski family from Podolia (in a private collection). In it, there is a completed form for the inquiry of 1904, encompassing a list of landed proprietors of the district of Ushytsia (Podolia). The
form has three sections: the first for Russians, the second for Poles, and
the third for other nationalities. Within the context of the individual
sections, the owners were divided into three categories: owners of estates
larger than 500 ds., 150-500 ds. and under 150 ds.
11.
Guldman 1888, 345. Similar information is provided in Batiushkov
1891, 262-63.
12.
Kresy (Kyiv) 7(15) 1906: 6. Here we find as well the number of Polish
landowners: 5,727 (sic) of which 4,025 owned estates less than 50 ds. to
100 ds., the rest (1,455) more than 100 ds. This list also confirms our
reservations with respect to the inquiry of 1890.
13.
Wakar 1917, 112 (and the map opposite p. 112); Weryha-Darowski
(1919, 9-Ю) claims that in 1911 the Poles still owned 3,016,700 ds.
(Volhynia-1,297,000 ds., Podolia— 861,000 ds., Kyiv Gubernia 858,000
ds.). Given the current state of research, it is difficult to establish clearly
the total acreage of land belonging to Poles prior to the outbreak of
POLISH LANDOWNERS
189
World War 1.1 agree with Beauvois (p. 69) that we must reject the data of
1909 (see Bartosiewicz 1912, 7n), according to which the Polish landed
nobility owned, in the three gubernias, only 2,306,000 ds. (in 1909, but
according to Lisevych 1993,25, the data is based on the results of the list
of 1905). Since the total seems to be deliberately lowered, I do not think
the total acreage of land owned by the Poles fell to less than 2.7 to 2.5
million ds. immediately prior to WWI.
14.
Aftanazy (1993, 117) erroneously gives the date of sale for the estate of
Chornobyl; most of the property went to Russian hands prior to 1900.
Around 1910, Mieczysław Chodkiewicz sold a section which "was recovered" as a result of a new survey of the land. See, Kulczycki 1994,33;
Pułaski, 1991, 207; and the Rulikowski archive from Zavadivka (a private collection).
15.
Data on the big landlords includes only estates belonging to the nobility,
see Kondrafev 1923, 60-63.
16.
Personal computation from figures in "O enisle imenii... ".
17.
Krzyżanowski and Kumaniecki 1915,153, 159.
18.
New trends reached Right-Bank Ukraine through, e.g., youth returning
from studies abroad where they had greater possibilities to broaden their
academic interests than was the case in Russia. Cracow was a very
important center of agricultural studies of the Kresy landed nobility. At
the "Studium Rolnicze" at Cracow University, a number of valuable
studies on agriculture in Right-Bank Ukraine were completed.
Władysław Wielhorski from Zlobych, in describing his family estate,
presented a typical farm of the landed bobility based on extensive farming "unjustifed by current local conditions" and incurring losses (see
Wielhorski 1913, 135-98). A colleague of Wielhorski, Piotr Podhorski,
from Samohorodok (Kyiv Gubernia), proved in his master's thesis on the
basis of using one example (a farm unit of the estate of his father) that an
agricultural holding unit 100 ds. in size, efficiently run and applying the
latest agricultural techniques (above all, machines and fertilizers), could
be profitable and fulfill the basic requirements for supporting a landed
boble family (see Podhorski, n.d., 62-64). Similar conclusions are found
in Meyer (1912, Un), in which the author recommends limiting the size
of agricultural units to 150-200 ds. These views, however, were too
novel for the average landed proprietors of the Kresy who were convinced that only an estate of over 500 ds. had the desired conditions to
provide a middle-income lifestyle for them.
19.
Bohdan Feliński presented these views at a meeting of the Lutsic Agricultural Society in 1901. The lecture later appeared in print in Russian, a
précis of it appears in "The Chronicles" of Bolesław Prus (1970,320-21).
20.
Walewski (1963, 192) states that from an average sugar refinery along
190
EPSZTEIN
with the accompanying sugar beet plantations, the neighboring villages
earned 100,000 rubles in the way of profits of sale of beets, work on
plantations, transportation work (beets and sugar), etc.
21.
In the years 1909-1911, on the average about 364,000 tons of grain and
flour was exported form Kyiv Gubernia and 216,000 tons from Podolia.
See Kondrafev 1991, 95-95, 106.
22.
Dziennik Kijowski, 1913, illustrated supplement, p. 21.
23.
Rocznik Statystyczny 1913, 161; Krzyżanowski and Kumaniecki 1915,
163.
24.
According to Dunin-Karwicki (1901, 40), two factors influenced the
poor state of the forest industry in Volhynia at the end of the 19th
century: "A truly wasteful destruction of forests by the owners forced by
economic necessity due to a complete change in the system of agriculture" (after 1863) as well as the lack of regulations for decades on end
relating to the exploitation of forests. The first law of this kind was
implemented in the three gubernias only during the 1890s.
25.
See Lipkowski 1913,172-73.
26.
See Adres-kalendar, 16-17, 28, 75-76. See also Chojecki 1914, 28, 56;
'Otchet o deiatel'nosti... "; "Spisok chlenov . . . "; The Breza archive
from Sikerynsti {Pol. Siekierzyńce), Public records Office, Lublin, cat.
no. rv-2d/14.
27.
Dziennik Kijowski, 1913, illustrated supplement, p. 1.
28.
These included: Feliks Sobański (various types of scholarships for students, foundations, charitable institutions, emergency assistance, e.g.,
30,000 rubles for those starving in Galicia in 1912 etc.), Probus
Barczewski (amongst other things, 200,000 guilders for a system of
scholarships for students and young academics at the University of
Cracow, the University of L'viv and the L'viv Polytechnic as well as
50,000 guilders for the Academy of Learning in Cracow); Stefania
Moszyńska (in 1889, 12,000 rubles for agricultural research at the University of Cracow); Karolina Jaroszyńska (agricultural research at the
University of Cracow); Włodzimierz Spasowicz (100,000 rubles for the
Cracow Academy of Learning for publishing purposes); August Iwański
(in 1914,120,000 crowns to initiate lectures on the history of Rus'; at the
University of Cracow); Emanuel Małyński (agricultural research at the
University of Cracow); Aleksander and Konstanty Przezdziecki (for the
publishing of various primary sources, the upkeep of library collections
at the University of Cracow); Ksawery Branicki (1,000 franks in gold for
the Ossolineum in L'viv); Roman Sanguszko (amongst other things, in
1903, 50,000 crowns for the Ossolineum, academic publications, assistance to the Czapski Museum in Cracow and the Society for the Propaga-
POLISH LANDOWNERS
191
tion of Polish Learning); Adam Wolanski (a collection of 7,500 books for
the National Museum in Cracow); Leopold Burczak-Abramowicz (a
collection of paintings in 1874 for the Society for the Encouragement of
Fine Arts in Warsaw); Józef Wylezyński (an art collection for the Society
for the Encouragement of Fine Arts in Warsaw); Wiktor Skibniewski
(funds for the Institute of Psychology in Warsaw); Michał Sobański (in
1913, 140,000 rubles for advanced level agricultural courses at the Museum of Industry and Agriculture in Warsaw); Konstanty Wołodkowicz
(various legacies for cultural and philanthropic purposes, all told,
342,000 rubles). See J. Dybiec 1981, 41-42, 44, 55-56, 67, 108, 111,
181; Polski słownik biograficzny 1 (1935): 301 and 34 (1992): 508;
Fierich 1934, 9; Słownik pracowników, 285; 'Księga pamiętkowa," 18;
Wiercińska 1968, 88-89; Chwalewik 1927, 362-63; Wies ilłustrowana
1914 (3) 43-44; Wieś i Dwór 1912 (19-20): 33 and 1912 (24): 35;
Dziennik Kijowski 1909 (210).
29.
For example, the bequest of Countess Branicka (287,000 rubles) for
village schools on her estates in Ukraine; and a foundation established by
Konstanty Wołodkowicz for the University of L'viv (36,000 rubles) for
scholarships for Ukrainian youth studying either in L'viv or in Cracow.
See Kraj 1884 (3): 19; Dziennik Kijowski 1909 (210).
30.
For example, Zygmunt Luba-Radzimiński, Edward Rulikowski, Achilles
Breza, Franciszek Pułaski, Aleksander Bydłowski, Leopold BurczakAbramowicz, Stanisław Krzyżanowski, Konrad Szymański, and others.
See Bombergowa 1988, 70n; Rolle n.d., 55-62.
31.
Many articles and treatises of archeologists and ethnographers of the
Kresy were published in Zbiory wiadmomości do antropologi krajowi,
Cracow, e.g., the studies of Edward Rulikowski (vol. 3, pp. 62-166),
Zofia Rokossowska (vol. 7, pp. 13-246), Lucyna Stadnicka (vol. 12, pp.
103-116), Zygmunt Luba-Radzimiński (vol. 1, pp. 8-11; vol. 2, pp. 7374; vol. 3, pp. 62-69, i.a.), Achilles Breza (vol. 11, pp. 48-51) as well as
other landowners. Czesław Neyman falls into this group, as well.
32.
This was the case of the "anonymous" scholarship foundation for students of agriculture at the University of Cracow established from funds
donated in 1904 by Karolina Jaroszyńska. See Dybiec 1981,67. In 1868,
the tsarist authorities prevented the execution of the will of Józef
Jakumowski from Volhynia whose entire estate (15,000 rubles) was to go
to the department/chair of history at the Ossolineum in L'viv (ibid., 37).
33.
See Dziesięciolecie Wolnej 1911, 11—15; Sprawozdanie czterdzieste
1929, 30-31; Sprawozdanie Wydziału 1907, 2-42; Sprawozdanie
tymczasowe 1915,4.
34.
Leszek Zasztowt wrote about the evolution of the secret school system in
the three gubernias. See Zasztowt 1989. Beauvois quotes Zasztowt's
192
EPSZTEIN
article but only selectively and not accurately. The activities of the Polish
school system during World War I on Right-Bank Ukraine can be found
in Kornecki 1922.
35.
In contrast to what Beauvois writes (p. 199), Polish primary schools,
were found, as well, among peasants. The best proof of this is the speech
sound of surnames of participants of this system referred to by Zasztowt
(1989, 95-95, 98-99). On the participation of the landed nobility and
Polish intelligentsia in the organization of secret schools, see Świderska
1966.
36.
As regards the number of landowners, information presented at the beginning of the study creates some confusion. When citing his conclusions
from the book Polacy na Ukrainie (1987, 192, 283), the author states (p.
20) that in the middle of the 19th century in the three gubernias there
were 7,000 "owners of large estates" and in 1863 there were only 5,000
to 5,500. However, this means that around the year 1850 landowners
along with their families must have represented close to 50% of the total
number of verified nobility and not 90% as he claims on p. 20. With
respect to the number of landlords according to Andrzej Grabianka, see
Rychlik (1988, 142).
37.
Calendarium liturgicum Dioecesium Luceoriensis et Zytomiriensis nee
non ecclesiarum per Podoliam 1905, 143.
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. 1990. "Tatarzy litewscy 1765-1831 częścię szlacheckiego
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REVIEWS
LINGUISTIC INTERRELATIONS IN EARLY RUS'. NORTHMEN,
FINNS, AND EAST SLAVS (NINTH TO ELEVENTH CENTURIES).
By Bohdan Strumiński. Collana di filologia e letterature slave. Edmonton
and Toronto: Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies Press, 1996. 353 pp.,
index, bibliographical references. ISBN (paper) 1-895571-16-2. $49.95.
Bohdan Strumiński's book may deservedly be regarded as a bold and, to some extent,
revisionary account of "the beginnings of Rus'." Challenging conventional wisdom,
shared mostly by the Anti-normanists, the author claims to offer "an interdisciplinary
approach to covering linguistic aspects of the problem," based on "the well-tested,
traditional comparative-historical or philological method" which features "empirism,
non-apriorism, common sense" (p. 9). The result, while engaging, proves to be methodologically biased and less pioneering than envisaged by the author: his book contributes
essentially to the traditional Normanist standpoint, going as far back as the eighteenth
century, when Gottlieb Siegfried Bayer introduced works by the Emperor Constantine
Porphyrogenitus, and Gerhard Friedrich Müller developed the theory about the foundation of Kyivan Rus' by Northmen. Thus, the whole idea of an "interdisciplinary approach" to the query formulated more than two centuries ago appears very traditional at
its core and resists any new clarification of the "linguistic aspects" of that problem.
In this regard, Linguistic Interrelations in Early Rus' deals not so much with the
alleged "linguistic interrelations" as with particular consequences of the socio-cultural
relations between Northmen, East Slavs, and Balto-Finnic peoples in the period of
Common East Slavic history (from the early ninth to the mid-eleventh century), which
were eventually reflected in their languages.
Consequently, this extremely erudite book provides not a systematic presentation of
the relevant materials, but loosely connected studies and essays—to be fair, often
original and thought-provoking generalizations—which are broadly grouped into six
chapters. These are: "The Role of the Northmen in the Rise of the East Slavic Linguistic
Group," "The System of Old Nordic as Reflected in Old East Slavic and Other Languages," "The System of Old East Slavic as Reflected in Old Nordic," "Interrelated Old
Nordic and Old Slavic Onomastics," "Mutual Old Nordic and Old East Slavic Lexical
Borrowings," and "Old East Slavic and Finnic."
The first chapter does not achieve its goal of explaining coherently the emergence of
the "amazing linguistic unity" (p. 11) on the huge East Slavic territory. It is improbable
to directly link metathesis and vocalization of liquids, labialization of CelC, labialization of je-, affricatization of t', a", vocalization of jers, denasalization of ę, ç, and
pleophony with the creation of lines of communication by Northmen all across the East
Slavic area, the foundation of a dynasty of the descendants of RörkR in that area, etc., as
propounded by Strumiński (p. 22). Even while linking those phonetic phenomena with a
gradual adoption of the local language by the Northmen, it is, to say the least, naive to
reduce the "basic systemic features" of the language to phonetic characteristics, as the
latter are apparently secondary with regard to the "first articulation" (ct., André
Martinet).
Moreover, the author's survey of "systemic features," condensed into thirteen pages
is inconsequential compared to the two hundred pages devoted to the subject in George
198
HARVARD UKRAINIAN STUDIES XXI (1-2)
Y. Shevelov's Historical Phonology of the Ukrainian Language (Heidelberg, 1979),
which incisively demonstrates the evolutionary consistency and continuity of Ukrainian
phonetics beginning from the Proto-Ukrainian period. The lack of such consistency in
Straminski's interpretation of Old Ukrainian t (pp. 62-66) and of quantity in Old East
Slavic (p. 70) asserts especially itself in the equation of ë with "a front vowel plus і
diphthong" (p. 64).
Much more provocative is the study on HœsiR and Old Ukrainian quantity (pp. 6769). The word Icesir (=Old Nordic HœsiR) "Poles", which is reflected in the dative
plural lœsom in Pjóoólfr Arnórsson's poem on the Eastern European exploits of Haraldr
inn Нагбгабі, is believed by the author to be an adaptation of Old Ukrainian [l'äs'i], with
a slightly fronted ä after a palatal Г. Indeed, this view, based mostly on Jooseppi
Mikkola's reconstruction, is hardly to be rejected; meanwhile, the overall conclusion by
Strumiński that "quantity was still a living phenomenon in the language of Rus'-Ukraine
in 1031" (p. 69), is open to doubt. To quote the author's words, "in the still obscure
history of the disappearance of vocalic length in Ukrainian"—dated, incidentally, by
Shevelov to the eighth and the first half of the ninth century—the length in the term
4'äs'i does not throw any light on phonetic quantity in Old Ukrainian. Were there a
phonemic quantity in Old Nordic, this fact would not of necessity presuppose a similar
phenomenon in Old Ukrainian, since what "was phonetically clear" (p. 69) to Old
Ukrainians, might have been intrinsically interpreted by Northmen phonemically.
Aside from these excessive generalizations in theoretical issues, the reader will
certainly appreciate the extremely informative (although exposed seemingly too
"nonlinguistically" to the premises of the Wörter and Sachen method) chapters on
interrelated Old Nordic and Old East Slavic onomastics (pp. 77-228), mutual lexical
borrowings (pp. 229-54), and Old East Slavic and Finnic (pp. 255-87). Of particular
interest is an exposé of the origins and history of the Merja language and its speakers
(pp. 272-87). This language became extinct not later than in the twelfth century, when
the Merja were probably East Slavicized and last mentioned (in the Primary Chronicle)
as a people with its own language. From phonetic and partly morphological features of
the language Stramiński infers that the original abode of the Merja was in the vicinity of
the Karelian-Finnish territory. This conclusion is statistically backed up by a meticulous
comparative analysis of the alleged Merja-Russian lexical items that have equivalents in
Baltic Finnic, particularly Finnish-Karelian (seventeen close equivalents out of 21
Merja appelatives preserved in the Russian language): cf. Merja *vähä, Finnish vähän,
Ludían Karelian, Vodian vähä 'a little' and Russian vjaxa morphologically adjusted to
such words as kroxa, and the like (pp. 276-79).
Still, the author's reconstruction of the reflection of Proto-Baltic Finnic sounds in
Merja (pp. 280-82) would have been much more comprehensive and presumably
functionally adequate, had Strumiński taken into consideration peculiarities of Merja
vocalism. Thus, from the few Merja-Russian lexical items, which go back to the times
of Merja-Russian contacts, one may tentatively deduce a harmonic nature of the Merja
vocalism, apparent even in morphologically elementary wordforms of the type of
*lejmä (Russian lejma 'cow'), *tohto (Russian toxta 'rotten tree, rotten tree core') with
the new -o suffixe (*tohto < tohkav < *toskav, cf. the Russian name of the Ulhav,
Volxov) or *kirßes (Russian kirbjas 'ax' < late OES *kyrbes), Finnish kirves, genitive
kirveen, Karelian kirves, genitive kirvehen, Vepsian kirvez, and the like (for other quite
obvious examples, see pp. 276-79).
Regrettably, this aspect of Merja vocalism remains beyond the scope of this study,
although by taking account of those strikingly characteristic features it would have
yielded much more convincing results with a view to substantiating the genetic classification of the Merja language. In this respect, it would have been very instructive to
REVIEWS
199
analyze the behavior of harmonic-vowel initial suffixes, if any, following different
vowel stems and compare it with the Finnish vowel harmony rules: cf. Russian pixta
'fir, spruce' < late OES *pixta < Merja *pihta, Finnish pihka, Vepsianpiftfc, plural pihkad/pihk-ud , etc. (see: Erkki Itkonen and Aulis J. Joki, Suomen kielen etymologinen
sanakirja, vol. 3 [Helsinki, 1976], pp. 541-42) with the back harmonic -aj-u in the
inflectional suffix after the neutral і vowel stem pihk-.
Returning to the questions of Old Nordic and Old East Slavic onomastics, deserving
of attention are the sophisticated texts on the etymology and early history of the term
Rus' (based on the Nordic-Finnic solution to this long-standing problem) (pp. 77-88),
Aldeigja-Ladoga-Aldagen (pp. 89-92), East European river names (pp. 93-99), and
names of East European localities (pp. 100-112) in Old Nordic as well as on the gods of
the Rus' (pp. 113-120). The latter contains, however, the rather dubious statement that
"Регипъ must be a direct loanword from Old Nordic" (p. 117), despite the fact that there
is no solid reason for denying the Indo-European, particularly Proto-Slavic, provenance
of this god (Hermann Hirt, Scott C. Littleton, Thomas V. Gamkrelidze, and Vjaceslav
V. Ivanov), moreover in the light of Marija Gimbutas' theory of the Kurganization of
Old Europe.
The study on the Old Ukrainian, Old Nordic, and Khazar names of Kyiv (pp. 121—
32) tackles the etymology of the Ukrainian name in an authoritative and memorable
way. Strumiński shows clearly and neatly that since Old Ukrainian Kyjane, persisting to
the present, could not have been derived from the hypothetical river *Kyja, the town had
been originally called *КуЦь > *Kyjb (with the -jb possessive suffix) 'Kyjb's settlement'
and only later was this form replaced by the -evV-ovb analogue (p. 126). Speaking of
the name of 'Kyjb's settlement,' it must be borne in mind that originally this form had
necessarily to be accompanied by a pospositive appelative of the type of *gorch> - *КуЦь
gordb (Oleksandr Potebnja). The emergence of the form *Kyjb (< *Kyjjb) might have
heralded a nominal interpretation of the adjectival form *КуЦь. Meanwhile, the Old
Nordic name of Kyiv retains this archaic collocation in a petrified form: cf.
Ke'nungardr (mid-twelfth century) ör KasnugarÖi 'from Kyjiv' (after 1200), etc. (p.
127), and therefore must be treated not only "as a name with an independent Old Nordic
motivation" (p. 131) but as a name with a common Indo-European motivation which
underlies the appearance of Old Ukrainian *Kyjb < *Kyjjb gordb as well.
Among other onomastic studies, of particular interest is the text on the origins of
urmane 'Northmen' in the Rus' Primary Chronicle (pp. 155-58), where it is given twice.
According to the author, the form urmane is much older than nurmane and murmane,
attested to in the late Russian chronicle versions, and must be sought elsewhere than in
Latin or German, viz. in the genitive plural form al-Urdumànïfln as used by Ibn al-'Idari
in 971. In this instance Strumiński adheres mostly to the view of his predecessors
(Aleksander Seippel, Harris Birkeland) and explains this form by the loss of the initial η
in *an-Nurdumänijln (from Frankish Latin Nordomanni). True, the absorption of some
initial consonants (e.g., I, n, r) by the article that leads to the loss of the initial consonant,
is typical of Arabic. But the loss of n- here was triggered not so much by the "interplay
of the Arabic article and noun" (p. 158) as by the interdigitation of a particular discontinuous morpheme of a mutation plural in a five-consonant root that was unnatural for
Arabic (cf., on the other hand, the maintenance of r- in rusl 'Russian', though ar-Rus
'the Russians', ar-rüsîya 'the Russian language' with a triconsonantal root, typologically representative of Arabic).
On the whole, apart from a few shortcomings in theoretical issues and generalizations, the volume is a good example of a well written and very informative book. It is
also provided with comprehensive bibliographical references, including both primary
and secondary literature, as well as by an exhaustive word index covering lexical items
200
in more than ninety languages. Furthermore, the book benefits greatly from careful
editing, though even in a book prepared with such affection for accuracy, some oversights are unavoidable (e.g., Arabic *al-maf}us instead of al-ma$us on page 85). Yet
Stramiński' s volume contains much of interest for historians and philologists, and is, to
be sure, a valuable and reliable source of knowledge and inspiration for the most skilled
Slavists and non-Slavists, particularly those interested in the multifaceted relations
between different peoples in Early Rus'.
Andrii Danylenko
Kharkiv Pedagogical University
SOLDIERS OFTHESTEPPE. ARMY REFORM AND SOCIAL CHANGE
INEARLYMODERNRUSSIA. By CarolBelkin Stevens. DeKalb, Illinois:
Northern Illinois University Press, 1995.240 pp. + map, 5 tables, glossary,
bibliography, index. ISBN 0-87580-1986.
In the first half of the seventeenth century, the Muscovite government began the
organization and execution of what can probably be considered the last successful
colonization effort by Europeans in Europe—the peopling of the great southern steppe
by Russian and Ukrainian agriculturists, and the consequent displacement of Tatar
nomadic pastoralists. The process began in earnest in 1635-1651 with the construction
of the Belgorod Line, a string of fortified outposts running some 400 miles along
Muscovy's southern border from the Akhtyrka to Tambov. Other Russian defensive
lines, and behind them East Slavic populations, marched steadily south toward Crimea
throughout the seventeenth century. By the end of the period, the Russians and their
Cossack allies were in a position to attack the Crimean khanate directly and did so in 1687
and 1689, albeit without success. Though the majority of the southern steppe was in
Muscovy's hands, it would be another century before Crimea itself would be annexed.
Despite the fact that the colonization of the steppe by East Slavs is of obvious importance,
it has been sadly neglected by historians. It is for this reason that Carol Stevens' fine
monograph is particularly welcome. Generally, this work concerns the ways in which the
Muscovite government organized, defended, and expanded the southern provinces.
More specifically, she is interested in the intersection of three government initiatives that
transformed the Slavicized southern steppe.
The first is the process of fortification and colonization itself. Though the Tatars
reached Moscow for the last time in 1592, they continued to wreak havoc along the
southern frontier in the first quarter of the seventeenth century. In addition, the Poles
were a constant threat in the southeast, claiming (and successfully defending) much of
Left Bank Ukraine. Against these two foes, the Romanov government decided to fortify
the southern frontier and, pursuant to this, initiated the construction of the Belgorod
Line. Because the southern steppe was almost completely bereft of Muscovite subjects,
fortification in the south went hand in hand with colonization. However there was little
to attract Muscovite military servitors or laborers to this dangerous region. So beginning
in the 1630s Moscow offered incentives to all those who would fight and work on the
southern frontier: demoted hereditary servitors were offered their old grades and land
grants in the south; conditions for entry into prestigious hereditary service and land
control were relaxed for inferior social groups already on the frontier; land holding by
non-southerners was forbidden, maintaining land stocks for those in southern service;
and the government refused to return serfs who had escaped to the south, thereby
REVIEWS
201
providing labor to support service personnel.
The second central initiative was the prosecution of the military revolution. While
the government was defending itself against the Tatars with the Belgorod Line, it was
compelled to face a very different military threat in the west. Swedish and Polish forces
had begun the move from heavy cavalry to massed, shoulder-armed infantry, giving
them a distinct advantage over the Muscovite cold-armed horse. The new forces not
only jeopardized the Romanov project to recoup the losses of the Time of Trouble, but
they were potentially more dangerous to the central provinces than the Tatars. Modern
forces had to be created. Such a reform was first undertaken in a series of half-measures
before the Smolensk War (1632-1634). These reforms were followed by a thoroughgoing national effort after the disasters of the Thirteen Years' War (1654—1667). The
government's resolve in this connection is especially evident in the reforms of 16781682, which marked a serious attempt to reduce the old elite cavalry and replace it with
modern units. By Golitsyn's first Crimean campaign in 1687, much headway had been
made.
Finally, the government took a series of steps to revamp its system of grain extraction and distribution to meet the demands of both steppe defense and the new formation
army. Over the first half of the seventeenth century, the center slowly developed a
localized system of granaries to be used to support the southern fortifications and to pay
Cossack auxiliaries. The granaries were filled by servitors on garrison duty as part of
their military dues. After 1663, the system was regionalized in the Belgorod and Sevsk
Districts, and new tasks were added, most importantly, the supply of the new formation
army on campaign. In the 1680s and 1690s, the government took steps to nationalize the
grain supply system to support huge campaigns such as Golitzin's to Crimea, though
this project had mixed results.
Stevens successfully demonstrates how these three initiatives had peculiar, and from
the government's point of view, troublesome, consequences in the south. Muscovite
colonization policy proved successful, but it created a military service class characterized by mixed status. First, the gentry in the south was of relatively low birth: though
southern servitors had the right to serve in the elite cavalry units and to control serf
labor, they were often without good lineages. Second, the southern gentry was very
poor: peasant labor was scarce in the south, and this meant that the land-holding elites
would often have to till the soil themselves. This configuration would not have presented any difficulty for the center were it not for the need to reform the campaign army.
The key problem concerned recruitment for the new formation forces. In central Russia,
the government was able to raise low-status infantry from the abundant peasants and
townsmen. In the south, the potential recruiting pool of peasants and townsmen was
insufficient. To be sure, the government impressed serfs where they could, as in the case
of the Komaritskie draguny. But beginning in the 1650s, it was compelled to fill the new
formation ranks in the south with the poor hereditary servitors (and their relatives) who,
as a rule, had too little land and labor to successfully outfit themselves for elite cavalry
service. In so doing, the government further confused the status of the campaign gentry:
not only were they of lower birth and poorer than gentry elsewhere, they were also
pressed into what was considered dishonorable field service. Simultaneously, the government was granting service land in lieu of money to lower status, contract soldiers.
This created an anomalous class of soldier-service landholders, further weakening the
traditional linkage between birth, land holding, and type of service. The centralization
of the grain provisioning system had a similarly corrosive effect on the social status of
those in garrison service. As the threat of Tatar raids receded late in the century, the
military value of garrison servitors lessened. The government increased grain dues,
which effectively lowered the status of those in the service cities: their duties to the state
202
became similar to those of dependent tax-bearing populations. The final moment of the
entire process of status readjustment in the south took place in the early eighteenth
century when a special social category was created for southern servitors of mixed
status—the odnodvortsy, a poor tax-paying group with military obligations floating
between the peasantry and dvorianstvo.
Stevens' contribution to our understanding of the colonization of the southern steppe
is in itself impressive, but her study also has implications which go beyond the confines
of the south to our notion of governance in Muscovy. She repeatedly demonstrates on
the basis of extensive archival evidence that the center was flexible in its effort to
defend and mobilize the south. Policies were adjusted and readjusted to fit local conditions. The picture of the Muscovite state that emerges from Stevens' study is one of
flexibility, rather than rigidity, at least as it concerns the provinces.
Marshall Poe
Harvard University
AUTOCRACY IN THE PROVINCES. THE MUSCOVITE GENTRY
AND POLITICAL CULTURE IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
By Valerie A. Kivelson. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996. 372 pp.
+ 17 plates, index, bibliography. ISBN (cloth) 0-8047-2582-9.
Muscovy has long vexed Western (and Westernized) thinkers not so much because of
what it was, but because of what it was not. Commentators from Herberstein to
Kliuchevskii and beyond have noted that, in stark contrast to monarchies west of the
Elbe, Old Russia was not in any but a trivial sense "proto-democratic." In Muscovy, so
it has been traditionally reported, the tsar dominated the political system to such an
extent that the road to Western-style modernity was closed. Such arguments found
particular resonance during the Cold War, when many Western scholars searched for
and found the roots of Russian "totalitarianism" in Muscovite "despotism." Yet it was in
the midst of this project to historicize Bolshevism that a voice of opposition arose. In an
influential "think-piece" ("Muscovite Political Folkways," Russian Review 45 [1986]:
115-81), Edward L. Keenan argued that Muscovy had been unjustly castigated by
scholars locked in a narrow Western mindset.
To be sure, Keenan recognized that Muscovite governance was not Western and that
there were long-term continuities linking the politics of ancient and modern Russia. He
insisted, however, that the tsar was not a universal despot. Instead, Keenan suggested,
the autocrat was the lynch-pin in a consensual, oligarchic "political culture." The image
of an all-powerful ruler was in fact an important functional element in this culture, but it
should not be confused with reality. This hypothesis was later explored by a student of
Keenan, Nancy S. Kollmann. In her impressive Kinship and Politics: The Making of the
Muscovite Political System (Stanford, 1987), Kollmann argued with some success that
elite politics were built on consensus and that autocracy was a useful "facade." Valerie
A. Kivelson's work may be seen as a further investigation of Keenan's "political
culture" thesis. Where Kollmann (who was, incidentally, the author's thesis advisor)
studied the central elite, Kivelson turns to the provincial notables—the gentrymen who
made up the bulk of the Muscovite cavalry army through most of the seventeenth
century.
The result is an impressive and novel treatment of provincial political culture in the
Muscovite era. The author chose as her focus the ancient Vladimir-Suzdal' region, an
REVIEWS
203
area typical of the Old Russian provinces that surround Moscow. She gathered extensive data on 3,573 gentrymen and women, a remarkable feat in-and-of itself. The gentry
generally did not write "private" letters and the like, so almost all of this information is
taken from official sources, mostly (though not exclusively) muster records, land documents, and petitions. With her collection of dossiers on the gentry, Kivelson attempts to
reconstruct the patterns of politics in the countryside. The general thrust of her presentation is explicitly polemical, for she, like Keenan and Kollmann before her, wants to
argue against the thesis that Muscovy was a despotism entirely different from Western
forms of monarchy. The autocracy was indeed powerful, but its power was not the result
of unilateral oppression by a omnipotent ruler. Instead, the autocracy's might "rested
upon forms of negotiation and toleration of areas beyond its control, which were as
genuine and significant as those worked out in legal terms by corporate bodies and
legislative houses in the West" (p. xvii). She goes so far as to claim that a kind of "civil
society" existed among the gentry in which affairs of common interest were negotiated
with the state. Her refutation of the despotism thesis proceeds in logical steps. After
offering a social profile of the provincial notables at the center of her study, she argues
that these men should be called a "gentry," and not a "service class." Kivelson admits
that they were culturally very different from Western provincial nobles: no hint of
"courtesy," for example, can be found among the Muscovites. Nonetheless, the Muscovite gentrymen were elite land holders, they lived in the provinces, and they often
identified with their native regions. And, she argues, "Gentry" is polemically preferable
to "service class" (or what have you) because it challenges "the view of Russian society
as "inchoate," or enslaved to the state through an all-embracing system of service
obligations" (p. 39). Kivelson then substantiates that the gentrymen of Vladimir-Suzdal'
indeed comprised a stable "community," and were not simply a loose set of peripatetic
servitors. Her data—admittedly imperfect—demonstrate that at least one-third of the
gentrymen in the Vladimir-Suzdal' survey were members of families who had been in
the region for more than thirty years, and many of these much longer. The gentrymen
built roots by attempting to consolidate their holdings in particular provinces. And even
when they were away on annual service, their families remained in their "home"
regions.
Kivelson then turns to the thorny question of partible inheritance, a practice which
has traditionally been seen as reducing the power of the gentry by breaking up estates.
She argues that partible inheritance was in fact well adapted to the gentry's "family
ambitions as well as with the economic realities of their time" (p. 102). Despite the
opposition of the state, the gentry insisted that all members of their families—widows,
daughters and sons—be provided for. "Domestic security and prosperity for offspring
mattered far more than Moscow politics or clan status. The preservation of family
comprised the central goal of political life" (p. 127). The dispersal of family property
was not seen as a problem because the land market, state grants, and dowries allowed
the addition of plots to the estates of relatively impoverished sons.
Kivelson believes that the gentry's insistence on a sphere of local autonomy tangibly
affected its interaction with provincial government. Though governors (yoevody) were
agents of the center and thus potentially hostile, gentrymen attempted by various means
to co-opt them. Other provincial officials (the guba elders) were "elected" by members
of the provincial communities, allowing for "some local participation in crime control
and justice" (p. 144). She argues that such "popular participation was understood in a
broader sense not as active, responsible citizenship (an unthinkable concept in an
autocratic state), but rather as license to develop the local autonomies and particularized
interests that made up the actual politics of the countryside" (p. 150). Where some have
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seen harmful "corruption" in the extensive patronage networks that gentrymen used to
further their interests vis-à-vis the state, Kivelson identifies an adaptive mechanism that
enabled the center to get things done by accommodating the interests of local leaders.
The state, despite its pretensions to nearly universal control, was simply too weak to
operate in the countryside without the aid of provincial patronage networks. Indeed the
local gentrymen used the legal mechanisms provided by the state to pursue their own
interest and to protect themselves from harmful incursions by the center.
In the final sections of the book, Kivelson argues that the ethos of the countryside is
well reflected in the political mentalities of the provincial elite. This can be seen in a
series of collective petitions from the first half of the seventeenth century in which the
gentrymen complain about the injustice of Moscow-based bureaucrats. According to
Kivelson's reading, the petitions show that the gentrymen sought personal justice from
the tsar on a national level and self-rule in the localities. The ideology of the petitions
was a local response to creeping bureaucracy, a rejection of rale by impersonal agents of
the state applying abstract laws divorced from the needs of the provinces. As the
promulgation of the Ulozhenie of 1649 and subsequent bureaucratic intrusions suggest,
the gentry lost the battle waged in the petition campaign. But, Kivelson says, the
provincial notables once again proved their ability to adapt to the demands of the state in
such a way as to protect their local interests. Unable to fight Muscovite administrators,
they enlisted them to pursue local agendas such as the capture of runaway serfs.
This is a well written, cogently argued, and thoroughly researched monograph. Its
chief thesis—that Muscovite gentrymen were not the supine servants of an all-powerful
state—is convincingly demonstrated. If the book has any principle fault it is a tendency
to over-argue this indubitable proposition. This difficulty is most apparent in Kivelson's
characterization of the historiography of Muscovite governance in general and the
provincial elite in particular. She states at the outset that her work is a response to the
"State School of Russian history, which posits the complete, controlling power of the
absolutist tsarist (or authoritarian Soviet) state over a passive, anarchic, or broken
society" (p. xv). At the beginning of every chapter she repeats her opposition to this
opinion. Yet I was left wondering who actually believed or believes that the Muscovite
state was omnipotent? The members of the nineteenth-century State School did not:
they emphasized the role of the state in shaping Russian society, but never claimed that
the tsar was in fact an all-powerful ruler. Neither did Soviet historians contend that Old
Russian government was despotic: they held that Muscovy was an "estate-representative" monarchy not unlike Western polities. And most Western historians of Muscovy,
particularly in the last few decades, have taken a position not dissimilar from
Kivelson's. To be sure, one can find in the literature isolated statements that put
Muscovite governance and the provincial gentry in a bad, and even very bad, light. But,
so far as I know, only politically motivated Western Cold-warriors produced sustained
arguments about the despotic nature of the Muscovite state, and we have no good reason
to credit them.
Further, Kivelson's desire to destroy the despotism interpretation leads her to overemphasis the similarity between Muscovy and the West. She states repeatedly and
forcefully that on any number of significant indicators the Old Russian gentry was much
like the provincial elites of France or England. For example, Kivelson explains that
"kinship and patronage groups [in Muscovy] served as partial equivalents to the corporate groups, such as guilds, confraternities, municipalities, and social estates, with
which new monarchies of Western Europe dealt and interacted, on which they relied,
and from which they derived income and support" (p. 267). The underlying argument is
clear: if Muscovite political culture was not despotic, then it must have been something
like Western political culture. Yet it is perhaps the case that Kivelson's concentration on
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equivalents, or at least functional equivalents, misses the big comparative picture.
Viewed in broad terms, the Western and Muscovite gentries seem to have been very
different in the seventeenth century. The former was more often than not free from
duties of service, protected by right-embodied estates, and represented in national
political institutions. In contrast, the latter was bound by heavy obligations of military
service, largely without corporate protections, and without a stable institutionalized
voice in national politics. Does this mean that the Western gentry was "free" and the
Muscovite "enslaved?" No, but it does perhaps suggest a qualitative difference between
the two, one captured by the English term "gentleman" and Muscovite term "serviceman."
In the end, how one understands the weight of opinion in Muscovite historiography
or the degree of difference between Muscovy and the West is largely a matter of
interpretation and, it is hoped, further debate. It is certain that Kivelson's fine work will
play an important role in any future consideration of these questions. She is to be
congratulated for her fine contribution to an important though woefully neglected topic.
Marshall Poe
Harvard University
SCENARIOS OF POWER: MYTH AND CEREMONY IN RUSSIAN
MONARCHY. Vol. 1, FROM PETER THE GREAT TO THE DEATH OF
NICHOLAS I. By Richards. Wortman. Studies of the Harriman Institute,
Columbia University. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995.
xiii, 417 pp. + 67 illus., index, bibliography. ISBN 0-691- 03484-2.
This book deserves to be widely read, if only for its innovations in both method and focus
and its captivating style. The format integrates visual as well as writen sources for a
panoramic study of the Russian monarchy from Peter I to Nicholas I. It is the institution
of monarchy and the monarchs themselves that are studied, rather than the political or
cultural history of the period. Fairly standard versions of this history are, however,
invoked from time to time in order to contextualize the coronations, imperial funerals,
military parades, and other court events that Professor Wortman splendidly restages on
the basis of contemporary images—mostly prints—and accompanying or related texts
(coronation albums, court memoirs, royal diaries, official proclamations, etc.). In his
study he draws from parallel studies in modern European history, sociological and
anthropological literature, and the work of scholars specializing in royalty, notably Ernst
Kantorowicz. Wortman's objective is to elicit and then analyze the "myths" animating
these "scenarios of power" so as to "understand the persistence of absolute monarchy in
Russia and the abiding loyalty of the nobility," a problem that has certainly been "all but
ignored in the extensive scholarship on prerevolutionary Russia" (p. 4). His basic thesis
is equally plain: "The sumptuous, highly ritualized presentations of Russian monarchy,
produced at enormous cost of resources and time, indicate that Russian rulers and their
advisers considered the symbolic sphere of ceremonies and imagery intrinsic to their
exercise ofpower. This study argues that such presentations, by ' acting on the imagination, '
[the phrase is taken from a mid-nineteenth century courtier] tied servitors to the throne
as much as the perquisites and emoluments they received from state service" (pp. 3-4).
The variety and extent of the material contained in this magnificent collage as well
as the author's way of presenting it make further summary, let alone criticism, difficult.
206
There is space here only to sample the book's contents and this one reviewer's reactions.
It is a work that all students of Imperial Russian history must read and ponder for
themselves.
The volume is divided into four main parts and subdivided into thirteen chapters; it is
hardly surprising that the reigns of Peter I (Chapter 2), Catherine II (Chapters 4-5),
Alexander I (Chapters 7-8), and especially Nicholas I (Chapters 9-13) occupy the bulk
of the text. Part One covers the "European Background" of Imperial Russian ceremony,
primarily the rites of Louis XIV' s court at Versailles, along with allegedly relevant prePetrine precedents in "Russia" itself (Chapter 1). Then, relying on documents revealing
the ceremonial of the Petrine regime, especially the triumphal entries into Moscow
following the Azov (1696) and Poltava (1709) victories, the coronation of Catherine I
(1724), and the funeral of Peter himself (1725), Wortman goes on to argue that Peter's
"Great transformations" in Russia were both preplanned and predetermined by events of
preceding reigns. Peter "brought this development"—the gradual "adoption" in Moscow of a secular Western "mythology of empire"—"to its culmination" (p. 41) while, as
early as the Azov triumph, he "redefined the meaning of his rule and presented a new
image of monarchy before he embarked on his reforms." According to Wortman,
"symbolic change was anterior to political and social change." The "new image" was
that of conqueror, or conqueror-founder; already in this, as in later ceremonial triumphs,
all borrowed (we are not really shown how) from Western, ultimately classical sources,
Peter "gave notice that the Russian tsar owed his power to his exploits on the battlefield,
not to divinely ordained traditions of succession." Furthermore,
The conqueror presents himself as the founder, a godlike figure who
defiles old forms of authority to creat new ones, reproducing what Sahlins
called "an original disorder." Then, "having committed his monstrous acts
against society, proving he is stronger than it, the ruler proceeds to bring
system out of chaos." The primitive founder came from outside and invaded as a conqueror, denying the prevailing moral order to assert a new
form of authority more ruthless and irresistible than the old. Although
Russian, Peter assumed Foreign features from childhood. He never appeared with a beard, the traditional orthodox sign of godliness. In the early
1690s, he began wearing Western clothing. To the horror of the hierarchy,
he ate meat during fasts and remained indifferent to their strictures. Rumors spread among the people that he was a son not of Tsar Alexei, but of
a German, and had been substituted for a daughter born to the tsaritsa.
Others called him a Swedish pretender from Stockholm (p. 44).
This sweeping paragraph is followed by references to works by the South Pacific
anthropologist Marshall Sahlins and the nineteenth-century Russian historians S. M.
SoloVev and N. Pavlov-Sil'vanskii. Wortman's style shines, as in the paragraph beginning: "His first ceremonial spectacles surrounded his power with the stage effects of the
battlefield. For Peter as [for] Louis XIV, the festivals were a symbolic equivalent to a
coup d'etat, creating miracles previously allowed only to God. Displays of fireworks,
often staged by Peter himself, demonstrated the conquest of the heavens . . . " or: "Peter
followed the ceremonial celebration with a pictorial celebration of the events. Engravings lifted his achievements into the category of Western monarchies', and created a
mythic history of his reign . . . " (pp. 45-46). These paragraphs, fleshed out with illustrative detail, are followed by references to a monograph on fireworks in Russian
history and to another on engraving in the Petrine period. The argument, by turns
insightful, intriguing, or puzzling, amply or sparsely supported, both assertive and
allusive, is almost too dense to follow. It perhaps helps to assume that the perspective,
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here as often throughout the volume, is that of a contemporary spectator, sometimes a
Westerner whose good opinion is being sought but more often a member of that noble
Russian elite whose loyalty was indeed necessary to the rulers' exercise of power.
This approach raises a general question of critical import for historians and others
who, like Wortman, would move beyond conventional topics, approaches, and sources
to achieve a fuller understanding of the workings of political power—a question that
Wortman himself, again to his great credit, raises in his introduction. How do we
measure, evaluate, or even estimate the response of contemporaries to images and texts
produced by their rulers and to the officially staged ceremonies that such images and
texts record? Where, even supposing the intentions of these sources' authors are demonstrably clear, do we look for such responses to them? "Affirmations of belief," found in
the memoirs and diaries of participants and spectators, provide Wortman with some of
the needed evidence, although, as he notes, they "often have a ritualized character that
may impugn their validity." He then cites the essay by the Classical historian, Paul
Veyne, Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? (Chicago, 1983; original French edition,
Les Grecs ont-ils cru a leurs mythes? Paris, 1983), to the effect that belief can exist on
many levels and that for the literate Greeks, belief in the heroic mythology of the citystates "expressed a feeling of belonging to the polity" and thus set them apart from
outsiders; acceptance of these myths was based neither on calculation nor credulity. Nor
was it the result of ideological manipulation from above.
Similarly, the Russian monarchy was based on traditions of political involvement of
the elite . . . Belief signaled a form of affiliation with the political core group and set the
members apart from those who could not or would not participate. Like Athenian
citizens, Russian noblemen at once believed and disbelieved presentations of a rhetorical truth [the "truth" expressed in myths] that elevated them into the superior realm of
majesty and empire (pp. 8-9).
Of course this resort to Veyne, impressive as it is, does no more than raise the
possibility that a Russian nobleman of the Imperial period might have simultaneously
believed and disbelieved the myths projected by the current regime, and that such a
stance would have reinforced his loyalty to it; no demonstration is given to support such
a claim. Wortman elides the distinction, in principle as well as in practice, and sometimes lets his own cautionary advice on the validity of memoirs slip from view. Hypothetical or individual noblemen become actual or typical noblemen who "were at the
same time participants in and audience for imperial ceremonies, their involvement
[italics mine] demonstrating the truths enshrined by power. Their memoirs [the few that
we have], often reflecting literary ambitions, reproduce the themes of imperial presentations; they describe the sense of exaltation experienced by their authors in the court, and
the efforts to reproduce such feelings on the stages of their estate theaters" (p. 9, citing a
recent scholarly article on estate theater and the collected works of G. R. Derzhavin).
The argument, again, is surely plausible. But plausibility is not yet proof.
Wortman's lush evocation of the ethos of Imperial Russian court life is fascinating,
quite literally so. Amazingly rich in novel information, it should persuade even hardened empiricists that well into Nicholas Γ s reign Russian court culture, pervaded by
Imperial myths, was Russian high culture, co-optive of any indigenous assertions that
might have entered its space; that it not only persistently, but necessarily borrowed—so
as to maintain its progressive and "foreign" character—Western diction and imagery in
elaborating its leading motives; that Imperial women, often German in origin, played
critical roles in the whole enterprise; and that, at least until the generation of the
Decembrists and the rise of the critical intelligentsia, Imperial court culture,
"monologic" (or monopolistic) as it was, helped to bind the nobility, at some emotional
level, to the throne. Still more persuasive in its illustrative detail, is Wortman's insis-
208
tence that the evolving Imperial mythology decisively shaped the outlook and character
of successive monarchs, particularly Alexander I and Nicholas I—no small matter in an
autocracy. This much alone constitutes a major scholarly achievement. Nor do I do
justice to the subtlety, variety, and suggestiveness with which Wortman advances his
cause. Anyone interested in Imperial Russian history, or in modern monarchy, will want
to read this book.
Complicity in the extension and maintenance of a hegemonic system does not
necessarily imply approval or even understanding of its pretensions: cupidity surely
must be given its due, along with vanity, fear, sloth, raw ambition, and the other classic
components of cynicism and careerism. "The nobility shared in power not by institutional means," Wortman concludes, "but by drawing close to the person of the sovereign
and participating in the scenarios that displayed him or her as sovereign" (p. 408). Even
had he ascertained the actual number of participants in these ceremonies (and as a
further function of this—the total number of nobles), the actual circulation of official
publications vaunting them, the geographical spread of official theater and architecture,
or other considerations among these lines, we still would suppose that serfdom, economic development, and opportunities for foreign travel, together with the admitted
"perquisites and emoluments" of state service, played at least as large a role in the
maintenance of the Imperial system down to 1855 as did the nobles' direct involvement
in the Imperial pageant. On the other hand, the value of a historical interpretation, as
distinct from a scientific hypothesis, "lies in its fertility, in its power to throw light upon
the historical material, to lead us to find new material, and to help us to rationalize and
unify it" (Karl Popper). In this respect we are deeply indebted to Professor Wortman and
eagerly await his second volume.
lames Cracraft
University of Illinois, Chicago
RUSSLANDS BLICK AUF PREUSSEN: DIE POLNISCHE FRAGE IN
DER DIPLOMATIE UND DER POLITISCHEN OEFFENTLICHKEIT
DES ZARENREICHES UND DES SOWJETSTAATES 1697-1947. By
Martin Schulze Wessel. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1995. 432 pp.
The Russian historian Alexander Brikner was professor at the University of Odesa in
1871, when Bismarck triumphantly applied the power of Prussia toward the creation of
a united German empire. Occupying himself with eighteenth-century affairs, but also
engaged by the contemporary political upheaval, Brikner in 1871 reviewed Leopold von
Ranke's volume on Germany in the 1780s, with attention to the achievements of
Frederick the Great as they pointed toward the work of Bismarck. In 1872 Brikner
published some Russian documents concerning the Seven Years' War, and argued that
Frederick did not bear "the responsibility for the breaking of the peace in 1756." The
Russian historian's favorable view of Prussia was both a matter of contemporary politics
and an important aspect of his professional perspective on the past century; his history
of Peter the Great would offer an opportunity to emphasize the past importance of an
alliance between Russia and Prussia. Alexander Trachevskii, who came to the Odesa
University later in the 1870s, took a more negative view of Prussia's role in the
eighteenth century and perceived serious conflicts of interest between Prussia and Russia
dating back to Peter' s reign; the later 1870s were, not coincidentally, a period of evolving
tensions between Russia and Germany, culminating in Russian outrage at Bismarck's
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conduct at the Congress of Berlin. Finally, the historian Georgi Afanasyev, at Odesa
University in the following generation, wrote during World War I about the Prussification
of Germany as an unfortunate factor which contributed to the coming of war with Russia.
These three historians' perspectives on Prussia, in counterpoint with the ongoing
evolution of diplomatic relations between Russia and Germany, illustrate the central
concern of an important new book, Russlands Blick auf Preussen (Russia's View of
Prussia), by Martin Schulze Wessel. The subtitle further indicates Schulze Wessel's
immensely interesting enterprise of analyzing the interplay between international relations and public discourse, especially Russian historical writing: "The Polish Question
in the Diplomacy and the Political Public of the Tsarist Empire and the Soviet State,
1697-1947." It was the political body of Poland which, to its misfortune, was interposed
between Russia and Prussia, obstructing the "view," and providing the basis for their
diplomatic cooperation in a "negative Polish policy: abolish" from 1697 when they put
the Saxon elector on the Polish throne, to 1772 when Frederick and Catherine arranged
the first partition, to 1939 when Molotov and Ribbentrop partitioned Poland once more
on behalf of Stalin and Hitler. The concluding date of the study, 1947, was the year in
which Stalin and Molotov abolished Prussia altogether, in the context of the postwar
German settlement and established Communist Poland under the exclusive domination
of Russia.
Schulze Wessel divides the long chronological span into three main periods, from
1697 to 1795, from 1795 to 1871, and from 1871 to 1947. Each of these periods, he
finds, is characterized not only by different diplomatic issues in Russian-Prussian
relations, but also by a different quality in the connection between diplomatic relations
and public perspectives. His treatment of the first period most resembles conventional
diplomatic history, with an elegant structural analysis of the triangular relations among
Russia, Prussia, and the Commonwealth of Poland-Lithuania; he also considers
Russia's larger diplomatic concerns with opposing a French eastern outpost in the
Commonwealth (AntiBarrierepolitik), and securing Russia's own western perimeter in
the Commonwealth (Vorfeldpolitik). These concerns became the basis of the RussianPrussian alliance through most of the eighteenth century (with the notable exception of
the Seven Years' War), and the alliance received its most explicit evaluation and
endorsement in the official memorandum of Andrei Osterman in 1725; this discussion
of Petrine diplomacy, after Peter's death, constituted the formulation of an eighteenthcentury "Osterman system," which emphasized the importance of the Prussian option
for Russia.
If a secret state memorandum summed up the eighteenth-century Russian view of
Prussia, for the second period of his study, from 1795 to 1871, Schulze Wessel discovers a variety of views which already appeared within the Russian public sphere. In a tour
de force of intellectual history, brilliantly attached to the framework of diplomatic
history, he surveys "Prussia as a theme of discussion" in Russian writing from Nikolai
Karamzin to Alexander Herzen, both of whom wrote about traveling through Prussia. In
Herzen's opinions Schulze Wessel notes the development, from an initially favorable
impression at the time of the voyage in 1847, to a very negative view of RussianPrussian relations in 1861, criticizing Russia as a sort of "East East Prussia." Mikhail
Bakunin had already in 1847 made preussisch into a Schimpfwort, when he denounced
tsarism as a mix of "Mongol brutality with Prussian pedantry." From journalism to
poetry, from Slavophiles to Westernizers, from Decembrists to socialists, Schulze
Wessel traces the evolution of a complex and ambivalent image of Prussia
(Preussenbild), the product of ongoing intellectual reflection (Preussenreflexion), and
he analyzes this discourse at the intersection of cultural and diplomatic history with
methods carefully adapted from the literary criticism of images (Imagologie). One of
210
the central principles of the argument is that the image of Prussia served as a sort of
mirror in which Russians perceived positive and negative aspects of their own state, that
reflections on Prussia were sometimes just reflections of Russia; the discourse diverged
from diplomacy as the perception of foreign image became confused with the construction of self-image, evident enough in Herzen's and Bakunin's cited comments.
After the third partition of Poland in 1795, Russia and Prussia no longer had the
Commonwealth to kick around. Negative Polish policy remained a possible focus for
common interest, inasmuch as both states had a stake in digesting their Polish gains, but
Schulze Wessel argues that by 1871 the suppression of Polish nationalism was becoming an insufficient basis for Russian-Prussian solidarity. Indeed, he concludes that the
great Polish risings of 1830 and 1863, "in which the quality of Russian-Prussian
relations became evident to the public," created controversy in Russia that undermined
the positive view of Prussia.
The third part of the book, focusing on the period from 1871 to 1947, is perhaps the
most fascinating and provocative, inasmuch as it emphasizes the "historicization" of
Prussia after the establishment of the German empire and analyzes how Prussia was
treated as an historical subject by Russian historians working both before and after the
revolution of 1917. On the one hand, Prassia was no longer a sovereign state and did not
need to be reckoned with apart from Germany as a whole and, on the other hand, the
Russian historical view of Prussia remained relevant to the increasingly rocky course of
Russian-German relations. The cited Odesa historians demonstrate the range of Russian
responses to Prussian history, as written in the decades after the unification of Germany.
The revolution of 1917 naturally introduced new political factors that affected the
writing of history. The Ukrainian historian Vladyslav Buzeskul wrote in 1915, when
Russia was at war, about the "metamorphosis of Germany into a Great Prassia." He was
also critical of the Prussian-oriented historiographical tradition, culminating in the work
of Heinrich von Treitschke. Writing in 1923, however, after the revolution, Buzeskul
took a more sympathetic view of Prassia. Schulze Wessel puts this shift in the context of
a réévaluation of Prassia in the revolutionary 1920s, when Soviet historiography was
readier to blame tsarist Russia and its allies than imperial Germany for the outbreak of
World War I. Mikhail Pokrovskii was at that time publishing documents from the tsarist
archives to prove that the war had been brought about by international imperialism
rather than German expansionism. Evgenii Tarle, who had studied in Odesa and Kyiv,
took a position opposed to Pokrovskii on the origins of the war—and found himself
banished to Alma Ata.
If Soviet historiography was intolerant of a simultaneous variety of views on Prussia,
it also permitted the expression of completely opposite views in succession and alternation. Tarle was recalled to favor after Hitler came to power, and in the 1930s denounced
Prassia as historically implicated in the ascent of the Nazis. In 1938 the 175th anniversary
of the conclusion of the Seven Year-War provided the occasion for a Russian historian to
remark that Hitler was the heir of Frederick the Great. Two years later, in 1940, during the
brief honeymoon of the Hitler-Stalin pact, Bismark's memoirs were enthusiastically published in Moscow as a token of the temporarily positive view of Prassia. However, in
1943, when the historian Tarle was serving on the Soviet commission to prepare for the
future peace, his memoranda blamed the Prussian tradition for World War II, and recommended the absolute debilitation of Prassia in the postwar settlement, including the loss
of Silesia and East Prassia, which eventually occurred. Schulze Wessel argues that Russian perspectives on Prassia, dating back to the eighteenth century, were essential for
conditioning Soviet attitudes toward postwar Germany in the 1940s. In this sense, the
memoranda of Osterman and Tarle, with their opposite implications for policy toward
Prassia, frame the long-term evolution of the Russian perspective.
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Russlands Blick auf Preussen is a work of great insight and originality, that illuminates the subtle interplay of diplomatic and intellectual history across three centuries.
Schulze Wessel meticulously observes correspondences between political power and
cultural discourse, but is careful not to impose a simplified matrix of causal connections.
Himself a German historian writing about the Russian view of Prussia, Schulze Wessel
is naturally sensitive to the complicated drama of interlocking perspectives; his work is
a model of scientific clarity and scholarly erudition, applied toward discovering and
revealing the significance of the Russian "view" for the history of international relations
in Europe.
Larry Wolff
Boston College
RUSSIAN SOCIETY AND THE GREEK REVOLUTION. By Theophilus
С Prousis. DeKalb, Illinois: Northern Illinois University Press, 1994.259
pp., bibliography, index. ISBN 0-8750-193-5.
Russian Society and the Greek Revolution should be of great interest to readers of
Russian political and cultural history. After documenting reactions in Russia's polticial
realm to the Greek revolt of the 1820s, Prousis gives a broad picture of the philhellenism
in Russian culture in the early-nineteenth century, so that the book almost becomes an
exploration of the role of things Greek in early-nineteenth-century Russian society and
culture. The conclusions drawn during this exploration shed unexpected light on this
period of Russian intellectual and cultural history, a period in which both conservative
supporters of Tsar Alexander Г s foreign politics and the radical Decembrists came to
terms with the events in Greece and, in doing so, contributed to the intellectual definition
of their own nation.
The book begins with politics. Prousis handles well the contradiction between
Russian society's philhellenism and the negative stance taken by the tsar towards the
Greek revolt: romantic feelings of kinship with the Greeks were strong, but Alexander
was above all concerned with preserving the Imperial order, of which the Ottoman
Empire was an essential part. Thus, in 1821, when news broke of the uprising in
Moldavia of Phanariot Greeks led by Alexandras Ypsilantis (1792-1828), against Ottoman rule in the region, Alexander refused to condone it, much less provide it with active
support.
Siding with Alexander were several of his ministers, including, from the Foreign
Affairs Ministry, I. A. Kapodistrias (1776-1831), who would later become the first
president of independent Greece and, from the Education Ministry, A. S. Sturdza
(1791-1854), who was drawn to the Greek question through his concern for the Eastern
Orthodox faith, both abroad and in Russia, as a necessary pillar of the educational
system. In those days, when Metternichian rather than nationalist assumptions dominated European politics, one saw no necessary contradiction in working to preserve and
nurture a people's culture, without supporting their drive for national self-determination. Thus, it need not come as a surprise that Kapodistrias "clung to the belief that
moral awakening and education [among Greeks], not armed revolt, constituted the
safest means to enact social and national change" (p. 22), and shunned participation in
the Philiki Etaireia, the Odesa-based society of Greek expatriates led by Ypsilantis that
initiated the revolt.
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Kapodistrias' conciliationist stance was reminiscent ofthat of Ms colleague in the
tsar's foreign service, Count Adam Czartoryski (1770-1861), who had a comparable
stance with respect to the national aspirations of his own homeland, Poland. Readers who
are familiar with the Polish question in the Russian Empire will be interested to see in the
Greek-Russian relationship a similar example of a dichotomy between "conciliationist"
and "insurrectionist" thought and politics.
Not surprisingly, disapproval of the tsar's failure to endorse the Greek revolt was
strong, even among those who accepted the dominant political convictions of the Empire.
Nikolai Karamzin (1766-1821) and Faddei Bulgarin (1789-1859) were among those
who argued for the "legitimacy" of the Greek movement, either as a manifestation of the
struggle between Christianity and Islam ("legitimacy" apparently being, for many, the
exclusive preserve of Christian monarchs), or as a popular revolt in the true sense of the
term, which therefore could not be treated as a dangerous conspiratorial insurrection,
such as they thought the recent ones in Spain, Naples, and Piedmont to be. Eventually,
Sturdza and Kapodistrias themselves came around to this point of view and began to
support the Greek insurrectionists.
Just as interesting is the support for the Greeks by those who did not subscribe to the
conservative Metternichian world-view. It illuminates our picture of the Decembrists, for
example, to learn that almost to a man they solidly supported the Greek independence
aspirations. For them, of course, conspiratorial insurrection was no sin, and in the Greek
struggle they saw "themes of patriotism and rebellion against tyranny" (p. 107) with
which they closely identified in their own endeavors.
Prousis gives a picture of Russian society steeped in almost all quarters with
philhellenism. Russians were, of course, conscious of their historical links to Greek culture through the Orthodox Church. Additionally, they shared in the Enlightenment trends
of Western Europe in discovering, or rediscovering, the classical Greek heritage. Such
was Russia's "Classical Awakening," to which Prousis devotes a whole chapter.
Some of the great figures in early-nineteenth-century Russian classical scholarship
are well known to us: Sergei Uvarov (1786-1855), the formulator of the Nikolaevan
"triad" of autocracy, orthodoxy, and narodnosf, and Nikolai Gnedich [Mykola Hnidych]
(1784-1833), a writer and publicist who throughout his life maintained an abiding interest in Ukraine (Malorossiia) and its growing literature. Both Uvarov and Gnedich, each
a contributor in his own way to the development of Russian national consciousness, felt
that knowledge of the classics would give educated Russians the intellectual and cultural
tools essential for this development. Well-read in Herder and with an eye always open for
manifestations of the Volksgeist in both classical Greek literature and their own, they saw
in Homer, for example, "authenticity, originality, and narodnost', the key qualities in any
national literature" (p. 99).
Prousis does not attempt to show what these classical scholars themselves thought of
the Greek revolt. Their contribution to creating sympathy for the Greeks was more subtle:
Gnedich's work, especially his translation of the Iliad into Russian, greatly facilitated the
development of the Russian "cult of antiquity," which, "deemed a vital source with which
to forge a uniquely Russian national literature, prompted writers to express solidarity and
sympathy with the Greek war of independence" (p. 104).
Which writers? Prousis is referring largely, though not exclusively, to the
"Decembrist writers," meaning broadly both Decembrists themselves and writers who
sympathized with their ideals. An argument contained in the book is thus brought full
circle: philhellenism, the "cult of antiquity," and, for the more radically minded, the
example itself of insurrection, led to sympathy in Russia for the Greek revolt. On the
other hand, the Greek insurrectionists served as an example for Russians, particularly the
Decembrists, who were straggling to end tyranny at home and, in a deeper sense, to
remake Russia.
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Prousis has shown just how telling about Russia was her embrace of the Greek cause
in the early nineteenth century. The affinity between Russia and Greece was more than a
matter of shared religion or admiration for the classics, and inspiration flowed between
them in both directions. No less than Greece, the Russian nation was at the same time a
nation-in-the-making. Prousis provides a quotation from Pushkin which sums it up well:
"Only a revolutionary like M. Orlov or Pestel' can love Russia, in the same way only a
writer can love language. Everything must be [i.e., is still to be] created in this Russia
and in this Russian language" (p. 137). Nation-builders in Russia came from both ends
of the political spectrum, from the radical Decembrists and the freedom-loving Pushkin,
to conservatives such as Karamzin and Uvarov; and all of the above drew inspiration
from abroad, from their co-religionist Greeks.
The book is comprehensive: political attitudes on the highest level, as well as
opinions from the Russian literary society, are richly described, and Prousis thoughtfully provides plenty of background information for the reader uninitiated in this particular avenue of Russian history. The chapter "Russia's Classical Awakening," for
example, serves as an excellent introduction to the vast subject of the classical heritage
in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Russia. The chapter "Russian Writers" devotes
some fascinating pages to the role of Lord Byron—perhaps a digression from the topic
at hand—as a culture-hero in Russia and his tremendous influence on Russian literature
and on Russian political opinions (Byron supported and eventually participated in the
Greek revolt). Though at times the detail can be numbing, as in the monographic chapter
on Russian relief aid sent to the Greeks, many of the themes in the book are timely and
welcome in light of some current trends in the field, such as cross-cultural perceptions
and the intellectual construction of national identity.
Alexander Dillon
Harvard University
LE NOBLE, LE SERF ET LE REVISOR: LA NOBLESSE POLONAISE
ENTRE LE TSARISM ET LES MASSES UKRAINIENNES (18311863). By Daniel Beauvois. Paris-Montreux: Éditions des Archives
Contemporaines, 1985. 365 pp., illus. ISBN 2881240755.
Daniel Beauvois' Le Noble, le serf et le révizor: la noblesse polonaise entre le tsarisme
et les masses ukrainiennes (1831-1863) came out while the author was in charge of
Polish studies at the University of Lille-III. The book has since been reprinted in Polish:
Polacy na Ukrainie 1831-1863: szlachta polska na Wołyniu, Podolu i Kijowszczyznie
(Paryż, Instytut literacki, 1987 & 1989), in English: The Noble, the Serf, and the Revizor:
the Polish Nobility between Tsarist Imperialism and the Ukrainian Masses (1831-1863)
(Chur, Switzerland, Hardwood Academic Publishers, 1991), and in Ukrainian:
Shliakhtych, kripak і revizor: Pol's'ka shliakhta mizh tsaryzmom ta ukraïns'kymy
masamy, 1831-1863 (Kyiv, INTEL, 1996). By the time the Ukrainian version appeared,
Beauvois had transferred to the chair of Slavic studies at the University of Paris
(Sorbonne) and accepted the presidency of the French Association for the Advancement
of Ukrainian Studies. Le Noble, le serf et le révizor vs, the second of the French historian's
three volumes on nineteenth-century Polonia in the former Kresy, the first being
Lumières et société en Europe de l'Est: l'Université de Vilna et les écoles polonaises de
l'Empire Russe, 1803-1832 (Paris, 1977), and the last: La bataille de la terre en Ukraine,
1863-1914: Les Polonais et les conflits socio-ethniques (Lille, 1993). Because western
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Ukraine is central to all three books, the series has been called Beauvois' "small
Ukrainian trilogy" (p. 19).
Beauvois' monograph consists of a methodological introduction, four chapters—of
which the first concentrates on the Ukrainian peasantry and the last three on the Polish
nobility—and a conclusion on the author's findings. The book has a name index, but no
subject index (an all too common weakness of French and Ukrainian scholarly publications). The focus of the study is on the Polish szlachta (a heterogenous mass of
magnates, nobility and gentry, enjoying noble status) for which the Ukrainian peasantry
provides the essential backdrop. No separate section is reserved for the Russians, but the
presence of the "revizor" (Tsarist authorities) is sensed throughout the work. The
Ukrainian translation is based on the original French text and the minor additions made
to the Polish translation. The Ukrainian volume leaves out the two maps of Right-Bank
Ukraine and a conversion table of old mesurements, contained in the French original,
but compensates for their loss with an informative thirty-page preface by Iaroslav
Dashkevych. The Western Ukrainian historian examines Beauvois' contribution to the
study of Polish-Ukrainian relations since the Union of Brest (1596) and discusses the
polemics among the Polish scholars engendered by the French historian's writings.
After the unsuccessful Polish insurrection of 1831, it took Russia one generation to
tranform Right-Bank Ukraine from the kresy (borderlands) of the defunct Polish Commonwealth into the iugo-zapadnyi krai (South-West Region) of the Russian Empire. In
the process, traditional social structures of the Polish szlachta were dismantled, most of
the gentry were deprived of their noble status, many nobles lost their lands, and the once
proud and powerful magnates were reduced to subservience. But the struggle between
the conquering Russian imperialism and the retreating Polish colonialism was not limited
to the political, social and economic dominance of the provinces of Kyiv, Volyn and
Podillia. At stake was also the control over the minds and souls of the Ukrainian peasants,
who in 1834 numbered 4,300,000. By comparison, there were 410,000 Polish nobles,
460,000 Jews, and a much smaller number of Russians, newcomers into the region and
concentrated mainly in the army (55,000 in 1840) and the administration. The degradation of the gentry did not induce it to improve its dealings with the downtrodden serfs.
Consequently, when Poland ventured into a new insurrection in 1863, it got little support
from the demoralized Poles living in Ukraine, while the alienated Ukrainian peasants
actually helped the Russian army track down the hapless rebels.
A keen observer with first-hand knowledge of Polish society, Beauvois noticed that
the memory of Ukraine does not leave Poles indifferent even now. The idyllic image of
a "land flowing with milk and honey," praised by the poet S. Trembecki in the beginning of last century and then popularized by Polish romantics, has left a vibrant chord in
the Polish psyche. This distorted image of Ukraine passed from memoirs and belles
lettres into history, where too often "emotion takes the place truth." Ukraine remains a
realm of legends and myths: the Kresy became Poland's lost Arcadia, a paradise of
innocence and happiness, a land of virtuous szlachta stoically pursuing their honorable
way of life and exercising paternalistic guardianship over the semi-savage serfs. Such
idealization of what was essentially a master-slave relationship persuaded the French
historian to return to the sources.
Beauvois evokes the writings of J. I. Kraszewski, who in 1840 condemned the
callousness with which his compatriots treated their serfs, and held that "the abuses
which brought about the 'Cossack wars' of the 17th Century and the massacres of the
18th Century, became even worse in the 19th Century." While Kraszewski and T. T. Jez
depicted peasant life like it really was, a plethora of Polish and non-Polish writers told it
otherwise. Beauvois confronts these writings with the hitherto unexplored documents
that he found in Ukrainian and Russian archives, and the apologetic memoirs and novels
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become significant for what they reveal of the milieu and the mentality of the people
who produced them. What better illustration than from the pen of the French historian's
compatriot, Honoré de Balzac: "The peasant leads a carefree, child-like existence. He is
paid and fed, and servitude, far from being a burden to him, becomes a source of
happiness and tranquility." How inadequate an information on the serfs, but how
revealing of their masters, Evelyn Hanska, the great love of Balzac's life, and her
husband Wacław, whose entourage had inspired such reflections in the French writer!
A meticulous examination of the official documents allows Beauvois to confirm the
veracity of Kraszewski's observations on the crass cruelty of the Polish masters and the
cynical collusion of the tsarist regime. The latter occasionally supported the Ukrainian
serfs against the Polish oppressors, but only when this served to loosen the Polish grip
on Ukraine; when it came to defending their class interests, the two masters found a
common language. In an ironic twist, Ukrainian serfs, who refused to follow the Poles in
the 1831 insurrection, were later punished by their Polish masters for insubordination,
with the tacit approval of the Russian authorities. Particularly painful, notes Beauvois,
was the fate of the Ukrainian peasant woman in a system where the landlord and his
steward (ekonom) enjoyed unrestrained license for sexual abuse over his peasant chattel.
The suffering of the common Ukrainian population at the hands of Polish upper classes
is a well known theme for students of Ukrainian history, the novelty of Beauvois work
is to give the subject prominence in a book devoted essentially to the Polish szlachta.
Masters of the land for several centuries, the szlachta did not constitute a homogenous group. Ethnically it was an amalgam of the Poles, who for centuries had been
moving into the country to administer and exploit it, and Polonized Ukrainian upper
classes, progressively absorbed into the Polish nobility. While the upper crust of the
Ukrainian elite was completely assimilated, some members of the lower echelons
maintained a lingering attachment to the Greek Catholic (so-called Uniate) Church and
other vestiges of their Ukrainian past. Even more striking were the social divisions
within the szlachta. The Branicki, the Potocki, the Czartoryski, the Rzewuski, and a
dozen or so other great magnates, owned tens of thousands of serfs and ruled over lands
often more extensive than some of the German states. An incomplete list of families
possessing over 1,000 serfs each, drawn up in 1849, shows 200 families owning
568,827 serfs. Among them one finds many newcomers to the region: Russians and
russified Left-Bank Ukrainians. The list indicates the degree of success of the Russian
policy of confiscations of Polish property and transfer of some of it to non-Polish
dvoriane. By the time serfdom was finally abolished in 1861, the szlachta had already
lost a quarter of its serfs and, by the end of the century, half of its lands. At the bottom of
the social ladder was the drobna szlachta (petty gentry) who enjoyed noble status and
personal liberty but who otherwise were closer to the peasants than the rich nobles. This
gentry owned little land and no serfs, and their existence depended on service and
loyalty to the all-powerful magnates.
Social disparity and moral decline left the Polish szlachta vulnerable. The Russian
authorities took full advantage of this and any misdemeanour (the insurrection of 1831,
the Konarski conspiracy of 1839, etc.) became a pretext to cut away, slice by slice
(Beauvois calls it "salami style"), at the rights and privileges of the Polish and polonized
population of Right-Bank Ukraine. Russian civil law was extended into all areas annexed from Poland and the Lithuanian Statute was abolished. Polish sejmiki (little
diets), garantors of the gentry's autonomy, were purged of undesirable elements and
integrated into the Russian "assemblies of nobles," more pliable tools of tsarist control.
The Catholic church lost much of its property and power; it lost contol over education,
much of its land was confiscated, monasteries were closed, the Uniate Church integrated
into the Russian Orthodox Church. Polish influence was further curtailed in higher
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education by the closing of the University of Vilnius and the Kremenets' Lycée, in place
of which the authorities opened in Kyiv the Saint-Volodymyr University, with the task
of russifying the Polish youth. Polish society suffered its most serious blow when
325,000 impoverished Polish nobles were relegated to the status of simple farmers
(odnodvortsy), and 15,000 others to that of semi-servile "state peasantry." Of the 70,000
Poles who retained their noble status, only 10 percent owned serfs. The main architect
of this policy of extinction of a social group, carried out on a scale for which Beauvois
sees few examples in history, was D. G. Bibikov, Governor-General of the southwestern region from 1838 to 1852. When Bibikov departed, the magnates still wielded
great wealth and commanded a certain respect among the Polish population, but their
moral disintegration and the decline of the institutions on which their power rested,
deprived the Polish population of effective leadership.
Daniel Beauvois declares emphatically his impartiality, as a Frenchman, in historiographical controversies between Poles and Ukrainians; his engagement is on the side of
human rights and justice for the downtrodden. In fact, he can be as critical of the
misdeeds of his compatriots in Algeria as of the Poles in Ukraine. Beauvois' intellectual
integrity, his capacity to analyse and integrate the wealth of new material, his ability to
present his findings in a stimulating synthesis, and even the passion with which he
defends his theses, have elicited a generally positive response, but not without some
reservations. Professor Dashkevych found thirty-five reviews for Le noble, le serf et le
révizor, mostly in Polish scholarly and popular periodicals. The majority of the reviewers welcomed the monograph for its frank and objective treatment of a delicate subject.
Stephan Kieniewicz, the dean of Polish historians, called the book a "scientific sensation." M. Tomaszewski accepted the thesis of Polish imperialism in Ukraine, while W.
Sliwowska saw some analogy between French action in Algeria and Polish behaviour in
Ukraine. Other scholars, both in Poland and in the West, rejected the notion of Polish
imperialism. Adam Hetnal could not agree that the Poles in Ukraine were colonizers. "It
was not the Poles, but rather the Mongol invasion that created the problem in the
Ukraine. Poland did not conquer the region but received it because of its merger with
Lithuania" (Slavic Review 1988 [1]: 148). L. W. Lewitter accused Beauvois of mistaking legitimate Polish patriotism, nationalism and irredentism for imperialism (Polin
1988: 378).
In 1985, Beauvois wrote: "if, one day, the Soviet empire crumbles—such dreams are
permitted—it seems that only the reconciliation of these warring brothers can ensure the
stability in Eastern Europe." The dream realized, the French historian enjoins Ukrainian
and Polish colleagues to "rewrite their histories, this time without hiding anything, in
order to arrive at an understanding which alone is capable to guarantee the stability of
the new Central-Eastern Europe." As one would expect, Beauvois applies the principle
of complete candor in his own Histoire de la Pologne (Paris, Hatier, 1995). Beauvois'
challenge is welcomed by Dashkevych, who in turn calls on Ukrainian historians not
only to review Polish-Ukrainian relations in the light of historical sources, but to pursue
the avenues of research explored by Beauvois; for example, the question of the Union of
Brest and of the Ukrainian Catholic Church.
Beauvois characterizes his sociological study of mid-nineteenth century Right-Bank
Ukraine as intentionally "partiel mais non partial" (incomplete but not biased). This
incompleteness raises a few problems. The division of the population into four groups
(Polish nobles, Ukrainian peasants, Jews, and Russian administration) is too schematic.
The treatment of the Uníate church and the Uniates as a group—this essential link
between the Polish nobles and the Ukrainian peasantry—is too cursory and at times
even confusing (e.g., correlations between Uniates and Roman Catholics on the one
hand and Poles and Ukrainians on the other). The Ukrainian intelligentsia, briefly
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discussed in connection with the Fraternity of Saints Cyril and Methodius and the
khlopomany, also requires a more complete analysis, especially because of its relations
with the Ukrainian peasants and the Polish nobles. The author also left out the Jews, an
important factor in the life of Right-Bank Ukraine and indispensable for the comprehension of the socio-economic relations between the Polish landlords and the Ukrainian
peasants.
"Traduire c'est trahir" (to translate is to betray) goes a French dictum, and the three
translations of Beauvois' Le Noble, le serf et le revisor are not without fault. The Polish
translator, as Dashkevych points out, has softened some of Beauvois' sharper expressions; "Les falsifications littéraires" translated correctly as "Literary falsifications" in the
English version (p.viii), became "Dyskusyjne wizje literackie" (debatable literary views)
in the Polish translation (p. 14). Adam Hetnal calls for a revision and retranslation of the
"most deficient" English edition, "full of factual and other errors" (The Polish Review
1995 [1]: 116). Could the faulty translation be the reason that the book is in so few
univerity libraries in Canada and the U.S.? The Ukrainian translation is generally good,
although the translator did not always capture the nuances of the French original. Other
objections one might have concern more directly the norms of the Ukrainian language
presently in force in Ukraine. The practice of translating Russian first names (Dmytro for
Dmitri, Serhii for Sergei) while transliterating Polish names (Mikhal, Ian) is linguistically unjustified. Also questionable is the translation of the word "Juif (Jew) by "zhyd"
when quoted from a Polish text and "eivrei" in all the other cases. The editors corrected
Beauvois' error, repeated in the Polish and English editions, namely that the author of the
Book of the Genesis of the Ukrainian People was M. Kostomarov and not T. Shevchenko,
but surprisingly did not notice that Shevchenko's return from exile was dated erroneously
as 1860 instead of 1857, and this in spite of the fact that the error was pointed out in
Ukrains'kyi istoryk (1991 [1-2]: 194).
The delivery of Shliakhtych, kripak i revizor was long and painful. Such delay in the
translation and printing of a book for which the author himself had secured outside
financing well in advance is symptomatic of the disquieting state of the Ukrainian
academic press. Professor Beauvois' follow-up study, a monograph on the struggle for
the possession of Ukrainian land at the end of the nineteenth century, is still awaiting
publication in Ukraine, even though it also obtained a foreign subsidy. Need we remind
our Ukrainian colleagues that this unfortunate situation discourages foreign scholars
from getting involved in Ukrainian studies?
Roman Serbyn
Université du Québec à Montréal
THE POLITICS OF INDUSTRIALIZATION IN TSARIST RUSSIA.
THE ASSOCIATION OF SOUTHERN COAL AND STEEL PRODUCERS, 1874-1914. By Susan P. McCaffray. DeKalb: Northern Illinois
University Press, 1996. 320 pp. ISBN (cloth) 0-87580-204-4. $35.00.
The phenomenal growth of the Donbas region since the 1870s from a "wild field" into
Russia's most important coal and steel industry has been explored already by scholars
who concentrated their studies on the emergence of a working class, on foreign investment, xenophobia, and anti-Semitism. McCaffray chooses a different view. She describes the history of the Donbas by analyzing the first major industrial advocacy group,
the Association of Southern Coal and Steel Producers. She mainly draws from the
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Association's voluminous publications, which reveal much about the interests,
worldview, and political ideas of some 250 engineers, managers and investors. These
sources portray a group of self-conscious modernizers, motivated by their shared faith
that large-scale industry would lift up not only their own careers but the country as a
whole. The members of the Southern Association were citizens of the Russian state who
had undertaken the initial effort to set up regional coal mining and metal industries.
Among these "pioneers for profit" all social and ethnic groups of the Russian Empire
are represented. By the end of the century native Russians', Jews', and Ukrainians'
firms were taken over by the New Russian Company owned by the Welshman John
Hughes and by subsequent French and Belgian investors. Despite the massive influx of
foreign capital and manpower, McCaffrey concludes that the native-born engineers and
managers who composed a substantial portion of Russia's technical intelligentsia ran
the Donbas coal and steel industry. In the mines and steel factories they stood between
foreign investors and workers, managing production and commercial activities. As their
political organization, the Southern Association unified delegates of nearly sixty firms,
responsible for most of the south's coal and steel production.
The main political topic of the Southern Association was the unsolved workers'
welfare question that led to the revolution of 1905 in the Donbas. The workers had
demonstrated their ability to act collectively as well as their power to shut down
industry. The industrializers were forced to think seriously about the workers' grievance
and search for a compromise. Most of the engineers and managers thought that Russia
should propel into the ranks of the European industrial nation not only in a purely
economic sense, but that modernity also implied the social responsibility of capital and
their engagement in non-economic affairs. Russian society could only secure social
peace and ensure further development by arriving at a mix of welfare and profit
capitalism. The articulation of a labor policy provoked a quarrel among the Southern
Association, the foreign investors, and the zemstva. Industrializers noticed that their
firms spent large sums for social and health welfare. But they also recognized that these
efforts were not sufficient and proclaimed that the foreign investors should transfer
more industrial profits into workers' welfare. Furthermore, the native-born engineers
demanded that local self-government, the budget of which was founded on industry
taxes, should undertake more of the financial and organizational burdens of building
social infrastructure. In close connection with this discussion, the Southern Association
called for a universal income tax, noting the paradox that the government did not tax the
rent that landlords received for leasing coal rights, but it did tax anyone who extracted
the coal. The tax burden should be equally distributed on both the industrial and nonindustrial sectors of Russian society to ensure a stable government budget and improvements in workers' welfare.
Another topic extensively discussed by the Donbas industrializers was the formation
of syndicates (Prodameta and Produgol') to react to the economic difficulties in the early
20th century after the great boom of the 1890s. Furthermore, the Southern Association
tried to influence tariff policy for the sake of favorably positioning the southern coal and
steel industry to compete in the marketplace with Western European firms. It was also
engaged in legislation to pass a corporation law that limited the liability of foreign
investors and did not strictly regulate private economic activity. The relationship between Donbas industry and the railroad became another problem to which the Southern
Association paid special attention. Its spokesmen made use of their personal contacts
and old school ties to achieve low freight rates for transporting industrial goods and to
ensure adequate prices for coal, steel, and rails.
An interesting chapter is the one about the Revolution of 1905. McGaffray shows
that engineers and managers were not only guardians of the Old Order, but also tried to
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be beneficiaries of disorder. Many among them joined the liberation movement. The
revolutionary situation gave them freedom of speech and freedom of assembly. As
mediators between workers and the foreign investors they acted both as advocates of
improving workers' living conditions and as agents of the factory owners, who attempted to get the workers back on the job. They used the anti-foreign atmosphere to
bolster their position inside the mines and factories, demanding that the jobs of managing should belong to native-born professionals. At the same time liberal-minded and
especially Jewish engineers and managers became a target of labor violence. The
Southern Association was in the end compelled to defend its professional prerogatives
and the social position of its members against frustrated workers as well as an antiindustrial tendency in the tsarist bureaucracy and society as well.
McCaffray's study supports general interpretations that Russian elites were profoundly fragmented at the end of the Old Regime. The Association articulated interests
and ideas different from those of other bourgeois and liberal groups. Economic interest
and ethnic heterogenity separated the southern coal and steel producers from their
counterparts in Moscow and St. Petersburg. After 1906 their delegates in the new
Association of Industry and Trade, an all-Russian organization of businessmen and
industrialists, showed themselves capable of debate, compromise, and coalition building, but they were unable or unwilling to extend their knowledge of politics beyond their
own regional and sectoral concerns. Outside the world of business and industry there
was an unbridgeable chasm between the Association on the one side and land owners,
agrarian liberals, professional groups, and peasants on the other side. The southern
industrialists straggled against political obstacles in the battle for an industrial modern
Russia. But they did not overcome them. The building of a modern industry with an
adequate social infrastructure could not be realized against the powerful front of government officials, zemstva, and influential segments of the public. Despite all their discussions and efforts, the southern modernizers failed both to produce and to realize a
program for the political, economic, and social development of the empire.
McCaffray's description of the notions and political activities of the Southern Association is mostly impressive and convincing. But some critical comments are in order.
The author has no doubt that the Association belonged to engineers and managers of
foreign firms, because they overwhelmingly dominated its leadership. But she finds it
difficult to decide to what group southern industrializers belong. Their living in the
middle and the struggle for advancing the Donbas' industry influenced their group
identity. As individuals, however, they had many other identities. The rich complexity
of social life makes it impossible to define a specific cultural profile of these middleclass men. This conclusion is of course right. But it is a pity that McCaffray presents the
members of the Southern Association mainly as political players. She makes no serious
attempts to outline the collective biography of their interesting group. The reader finds
only little bits of information about their biography, families, education, work, and
personal relations with their West European counterparts and foreign bosses.
The structure of the monograph is in part thematic, in part chronological. This leads
to unnecessary repetition. McCaffray barely explores the role of the factory inspectors
as advocates of a social infrastructure and their relationship to the members of the
Southern Association. Her description of the zemstva as landowners' political organizations disregarded the participation of other social groups in local self government and
must be reconsidered. The period up to 1905 is discussed extensively, but the author
turns less attention to the more interesting years between the Russian revolutions.
Furthermore, I am not convinced that the end of the Witte era and the Revolution of
1905 marked such a decisive break in the relationship between the central government
and the Southern Association as McCaffray suggests. She describes the period up to
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1905 as the "golden years" of the Donbas' industry and the following period as a
massive decline of its political influence, even in matters of economic policy. This
overstresses aspects of change and underestimates the still existing political power of
the Southern Association so that the analysis of the political complexity of the preRevolutionary Russian Empire turns out to be one-sided.
Although McCaffrey's book does not present surprising results and new interpretations, it is a professional and well-done study that deepens in some specific aspects our
understanding of the politics of the industrialization of the Russian Empire. The monograph can be used as a good introduction to the history of the rapidly growing southern
coal and steel industry, because it describes the main problems of an economically
successful, but socially and politically unfinished modernization which prepared the
ground for the revolutions in 1917.
Klaus Gęstwa
University of Tübingen
REWOLUCJA: RUSSIAN POLAND, 1904-1907. By Robert E. Blobaum.
Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1995.300 pp. Index. ISBN 08014-3054-2.
Robert Blobaam's Rewolucja: Russian Poland, і904-І907 will undoubtedly remain the
standard work on the Polish experience of the 1905 Revolution for years to come. The
author's exhaustive knowledge of both the most up-to-date secondary literature and the
archival resources related to his topic make this one of the most firmly grounded and
carefully researched English-language books on Polish history to appear in recent years.
Because Blobaum has located his narrative securely within the broader story of the
Empire's near disintegration in 1905, his book will be of interest to both Polish historians
and anyone concerned with Russia's borderlands at the turn of the century.
While Rewolucja offers adequate attention to the key political developments of the
1905 Revolution, the book is cast as a social history. This is reflected in the volume's
organization: it is divided into chapters on the experiences of the workers, the peasants,
the intelligentsia, and the Catholic Church. In addition, Blobaum provides a survey of
the political and social tensions which set the stage for 1905, as well as a fascinating
discussion of the ways in which the Revolution transformed the "political culture" of
Poland. He concludes with an examination of the impact of martial law on the continued
development of modern politics in the Kingdom. Each chapter is supported by detailed
documentation from archival sources, primarily government reports or internal correspondence between local Russian officials and their superiors in Warsaw or Petersburg.
The story that emerges is not at all Warsaw-centric; Blobaum takes us to each region of
the country, from the industrial cities to the rural villages.
Blobaum's primary thesis seems to be that 1905 provided the stage for the emergence of "modern" politics in Poland. Political struggles were no longer affairs of the
nobility or the intelligentsia; instead, they had moved to the realm of mass political
action. Blobaum gives great attention to the role of violence in this new culture of
contestation, and demonstrates how force appeared as a weapon for organized political
parties, and how the momentary paralysis of "order" in 1905 allowed various disruptive
elements to surface. He refers with apparent mixed emotions to the "deformities" which
came alongside the earliest expressions of "civil society" (pp. 286-87). Blobaum's
ambiguous attitude towards mass politics is captured in the following passage:
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The conduct of politics also changed under popular pressure. Politics, to the
extent that the changing conditions of Russian rule allowed, became more
open and less conspiratorial, more representative and less elitist—in a word,
more democratic. Democratization of political life, however, was also accompanied by vulgar forms of discourse and physical forms of action, by
radicalization, polarization, fragmentation, and violence. Such phenomena
tended to cut across party lines as politics ceased to be the preserve of a gentry
and intelligentsia elite and began to serve as a tool for realizing popular
aspirations (p. 189).
Elsewhere he describes the labor movement as a "perpetual adolescent" that was
"experienced enough to know how to act in collective defense of its interests but lacking
the wisdom to tolerate opposing views, to reject rash actions and violent solutions to
immediate problems, and, most important, to appreciate the stabilizing virtues of democratic processes and institutions" (pp. 113-14). Blobaum seems torn between a reluctant
acceptance of the "deformities" of violent mass politics as a product of "popular
aspirations," and a desire to see these forces disciplined and organized wimin the
framework of polite (but "democratized") political structures. Had the Russians adopted
wiser policies in the wake of 1905, he suggests in his chapter on martial law, such
institutions could have taken shape and Poland could have entered the 20th century as a
more mature democracy. To put all this differently, Blobaum's writing is clearly set
within a master narrative of modernization and the emergence of civil society, and his
task seems to be to explain why Poland never quite fit within the standard version of this
teleology. While recognizing Poland's peculiarities, however, Blobaum's terminology
betrays his desire to see Poland as a "normal" country, able to outgrow its "adolescent"
reliance on the "pre-modern" politics of violence.
There is no discussion of methodological issues in this volume, but perhaps one
concern should have been addressed more overtly. Blobaum does not problematize the
way in which he only allows individual workers, peasants, and students to speak
through the mediation of state officials. The overwhelming majority of his sources are
from government documents, which provide us with many details of what happened, but
offer us little insight into the meaning of those events. It is as if we are seeing the
Revolution through the eyes of those against whom it was directed. While Blobaum is
careful to suppress the obvious biases of his sources, so as to penetrate to what "really"
happened, one cannot help but wonder how the resulting picture is structured and
framed by its Russian witnesses. Of course, social historians have been grappling in
recent years with the dilemma of trying to let the "subaltern" speak, and a respected
tradition of scholarship argues that this is simply impossible. Perhaps Blobaum shares
this view, and would defend his strong reliance on Russian sources. However, given his
claims to recast 1905 as a social, rather than a political event, Blobaum would have been
well served by at least a brief discussion of these crucial methodological issues.
It is usually inappropriate to criticize a book for what it is not, but in this case one
important gap should be mentioned. Blobaum recognizes in his introduction that he
should have given greater attention to the non-Polish ethnic minorities, but he offers no
other excuse for this omission than the lack of space. The sparse attention given to the
Kingdom's Jewish communities is particularly jarring, considering the complex role
anti-Semitism played at the time. For example, he mentions that during the Łódź
Uprising of 1905 much of the fighting occurred in the Jewish neighborhoods, that more
than half of those killed were Jewish, and that thousands of Jews fled the city from fear
of a pogrom (p. 98).
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However, Blobaum gives us no explanation of how Jewish-Christian relations intersected with the demands and desires of the revolutionaries and provides no general
discussion of how the Jews responded to the turmoil of the year. Later in the book (pp.
160 and 170) he offers some tantalizingly brief references to the participation of Jews in
the school strikes, but these only open many unanswered questions. This is an issue
because the book's title promises us a study of "Russian Poland" in 1905, when in fact
Blobaum has written a study of Poles in 1905. Even in the Kingdom—setting aside the
complexities of the ethnically mixed Kresy—we must always keep this distinction in
mind.
Rewolucja is an excellent example of careful, detailed, and well documented social
history, and will be added to every reading list on Polish history. Perhaps not all readers
will share Blobaum's interpretive framework, but none will be able to deny the quality
of his scholarship.
Brian A. Porter
University of Michigan
THE REVOLUTION OF 1905 IN ODESSA: BLOOD ON THE STEPS.
By Robert Weinberg. Indiana-Michigan Series in Russian and East European
Studies; Studies of the Harriman Institute, Columbia University.
Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1993. xvi, 302
pp. + 1 map, 15 illus., index, bibliography. ISBN (cloth) 0-253-36381-0.
The Revolution of 1905 in Odessa is an impressive work, documenting in considerable
detail the increasing politicization of the labor movement and probing the sources of the
anti-Jewish pogroms ofthat fateful year. Weinberg combines a painstaking examination
of contemporary newspaper accounts with archival research to provide the reader with
a comprehensive account of life in Odesa during the stormy days of the revolution. Of
particular interest is his description of the poorest elements of the population, the day
laborers who found refuge in the seven "flophouses" (nochlezhnye doma) of the city,
sleeping on asphalt floors and bathing in "a nearby canal filled with the warm run-off
water from the municipal electric plant" (p. 47). Plagued by alcoholism and general
poverty, the day laborers categorized their hunger into three categories, using YiddishRussian Slang: "simple hunger" (gekokhtprostoi), or one day's fasting, "deadly hunger"
(gekokht smertel'nyi), longer than one day, and "hunger with a vengeance" (gekokht s
raspiatiem), a winter hunger which lasted for weeks and even months. His careful study
of the workers' lives adds much weight to his analysis of their discontent and its
expression in the form of strikes and pogroms.
Conspicuous in its absence is any similarly detailed discussion of the Ukrainian
aspect of life in Odesa, the participation of Ukrainians in the revolutionary movement,
or the October pogrom. Ukrainians constituted a significant minority—almost forty
thousand people, or 9.4 percent of the population according to the census of 1897—a
figure which Weinberg acknowledges may be too low—and were the third-largest
nationality after the Russians (45.5%) and Jews (34.7%). His treatment of the Ukrainian
element is submerged in the larger Russian-Jewish conflict, although occasionally a
more nuanced picture of events is revealed. In October, for example, university students
demanded the creation of a Ukrainian Studies Program and classes taught in Ukrainian
(p. 153), and recognizably Ukrainian names appear from time to time, such as Nikolai
Levchenko, the head of the municipal commission charged with investigating the
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origins of the pogrom and punishing perpetrators of the violence (p. 185).
While this work is not hampered by a lack of primary sources, it would have been
helpful had Weinberg looked at the broader range of perspectives that may have been
reflected in other linguistic contexts. The overwhelming number of sources is in Russian or English; only a handful of Yiddish citations appear, and I have not noticed any
Ukrainian or Hebrew sources at all. The absence of Yiddish newspapers is especially
surprising, since Weinberg occasionally uses English-language materials for foreign
accounts. The pogrom of 1905 is described in intimate detail, forming an integral part of
the book, yet more discussion of the pogrom phenomenon in general would have helped
place this violence in the larger context of anti-Jewish violence in the Russian Empire.
One small concern is the epigram, taken from a Lou Reed song, which seems singularly
inappropriate for a work describing the desperation, poverty, and violence of Odesa in
1905.
These concerns aside, The Revolution of 1905 in Odessa represents an important
contribution to the historiography of late Tsarism. The Ukrainian chapter of this work is
yet to be written, but its author will certainly rely heavily on Weinberg's painstaking
research.
Henry Abramson
Florida Atlantic University
THE GEOGRAPHY OF NATIONALISM IN RUSSIA AND THE USSR.
By Robert J.Kaiser. Princeton University Press, 1994.471 pp. + 26 maps,
59 tables, index, bibliography. ISBN (cloth) 0-691-03254-8.
Robert J. Kaiser's The Geography of Nationalism in Russia and the USSR focuses on
the development of a "sense of homeland" and a national self-consciousness and their
impact on inter-nationality relations in the USSR. Through an examination of Tsarist
Russian and Soviet history of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the author
demonstrates that geography is a critical dimension of nationalism. Kaiser believes that
social mobility alone is not a sufficient condition either for the creation of national selfconsciousness or for its erasure from collective memory. Knowing the geographic context
in which modernization is taking place is a necessary precondition for an understanding
of nationalism.
In Kaiser's view, the failure to recognize the importance of homeland by both
policymakers in the Soviet Union and analysts in the West resulted in serious misconceptions about the nature of nationalism in the USSR and the prospects for solving or managing the nationality problem. Examining inter-nationality relations in Tsarist Russia,
Kaiser demonstrates that before 1914 the localist mentality predominated and the nationalization of the masses was just beginning. Prior to the First World War a sense of national self-consciousness as well as a sense of homeland continued to be elite constructs
with which the masses were only beginning to identify.
After the war, the Soviet leadership attempted the polices of "korenizatsiia" and federalization to induce international integration which was to lead to the creation of a unitary Soviet people. Kaiser examines Lenin's and Stalin's views on the "national problem" in detail, stressing that if they had understood the territorial dimension of nationalism, they would not have advocated a territorial solution to the national question as
strongly as they did.
Against a number of Soviet and Western analysts who argue that "korenizatsiia"
ended in 1928 with the establishment of a highly-centralized economy, Kaiser traces it to
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World War Π. He views "korenizatsiia" as an attempt to mobilize and sovietize the
masses by using indigenous cultural forms, while at the same time undermining the position of the previously nationalized elites. The author claims that contrary to the center's
expectations, "korenizatsiia" created new nationalized elites rather than internationalized
ones.
The author demonstrates how in the 1920s-1930s, equalization and socioeconomic
development worked together with "korenizatsiia" and federalization to accelerate the
nationalization of the masses and to raise their sense of priviledge within their nominal
homelands. The failure of the center to internationalize (i.e., sovietize) the masses
through the "korenizatsiia" program and the rising prevalence of territorial nationalism
among non-Russians led to a policy reversal in favor of russification by the mid-1930s.
Considering the USSR, Kaiser shows that after World War II growing inter-nationality
interaction not only failed to result in the sovietization or russification of upwardly mobile indigenes, but actually served as a powerful catalyst in the activation of their territorial nationalism.
Analyzing the policy of linguistic russification, Kaiser concludes that it occurred
mainly before World War II, i.e., before the national and linguistic consolidation of the
masses. In the postwar period, with national self-consciousness on the rise, the rate of
acculturation toward the Russian nation decreased and was almost nonexistent by the
1980s.
The russification policy turned out to be counterproductive with regard to its goal of
creating a Soviet people. Kaiser argues that growing Russian fluency coincided with
national assertiveness and separatism, not the russification of the indigenous populations.
Examining the question of inter-ethnic marriage, for example, he demonstrates that intermarriage often led to the indigenization of subsequent generations at the expense of
russification. Contrary to the majority of sovietologists, Kaiser maintains that
russification did not pose a threat to indigenes, and ethnocultural indigenization was a
strong competitor with russification. Western analysts overestimated the degree of centralization in the USSR and focused their attention on the center's policy and
russification. This, in the author's view, led to an underestimation of indigenization taking place throughout the country and an overestimation of the meaning of the Russian
nation in the Soviet Union. The process of indigenization played an extremely important
role in the fate of the USSR. Instead of unification of the Soviet state, it led to its disintegration and the creation of independent national states. Nationalism became the equivalent of the national territoriality that ultimately led to the dissolution of the USSR.
Kaiser extensively covers the process of political indigenization since 1985, the types
of inter-nationality conflicts that have emerged since the late 1980s, and the prospects for
success of newly independent states. He presents a comparative analysis of nationality
problems in the world and the USSR, demonstrating similarities between the Yugoslavian and the Soviet situations and stressing the importance of the nation-homeland bond
and national territoriality for a better understanding of nationalism.
Kaiser does not trace differences in the center's attitude toward Slavic and non-Slavic
republics. The non-Russian Slavic peoples (Ukrainians and Belarusians) were to be
united with Russians to form the Russian-speaking core of the future Soviet people.
Hence Moscow's tougher policy toward the Slavic republics aimed at the gradual extermination of Ukrainian and Belarusian languages and the national memories of these
Slavic peoples, i.e., the main characteristics of national identity. Not analyzed in the book
is such an important tool of russification as school policy. The author considers only the
educational rates of Russian-related indigenes, but pays no attention to the content of the
school curriculum. However, it is due to school policy, with its emphasis on Russian
literature, language and history, that a number of indigenes, especially Slavs, began to
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perceive themselves as belonging to Russian culture, presenting a serious danger to the
preservation of their national identity. The author also does not demonstrate such contradictions in soviet nationality policy as the drive toward acculturation on the one hand and
the obstacle presented to it by the so called "passport nationality" practice on the other.
Those indigenes who wanted to be, or in essence considered themselves, Russians, could
not claim Russian nationality for themselves due to the soviet passport practice.
The book also fails to consider the stirring up of nationalism and prevention against
assimilation posed by the hierarchy of nationalities in the USSR (natsiia-natsional 'nosfnarodnost1). Nor does Kaiser address critical differences in the consciousness of the Soviet peoples between the periods preceding and those following perestroïka. Comparing
the data on native language retention for 1979 and 1989 for example, he states that
Ukraine had been experiencing linguistic de-russification from 1979 to 1989, but this is
not quite correct. This data needs a more cautious approach. In fact, linguistic assimilation continued in Ukraine until 1986-1987—a period on which we have no official
data—and only drastic changes in the people's consciousness in 1988-1989 had influenced the results of 1989. Despite these problems, the author manages to present a fresh,
original, and unbiased approach to the nationality problem in the USSR. The book, undoubtedly, will be of interest to all engaged in Russian and Soviet history as well as the
study of nationalism.
Yuriy Smolnikov
Institute of Ukrainian History, Kyiv
PRZEMIANY NARODOWOŚCIOWE NA UKRAINIE XX WIEKU. By
PiotrEberhardt. "Biblioteka Obozu," nr. 19. Warsaw: Obóz, 1994.335 pp.
bibi., Engl., Ukr., Russ. summaries. ISBN (paper) 8390310902.
Professor Piotr Eberhardt used censuses taken by six different countries to document
nationality changes in Ukraine during the twentieth century. At the turn of the century
Ukraine was divided between the Austrian and the Russian empires. After the First
World War it was partitioned among four countries—the Soviet Union, Poland, Romania,
and Czechoslovakia. Each country took at least one census during this period and the
data are presented in seventy tables and plotted on seventeen maps—a testimony to
Eberhardt's industry and the turbulent history of Ukraine. The three-hundred and thirtyfive-page soft-cover Polish language monograph also contains an extensive bibliography
in over a half dozen languages, along with summaries and tables of contents in Russian,
English, and Ukrainian.
The task is complicated by the number of censuses and a major defect of the earlier
censuses, with respect to national identity. Neither Russian nor Austrian censuses asked
respondents to indicate their nationality, but asked them to specify native language and
religion. The two designations have been used as surrogates for nationality and both are
unsatisfactory. Religion can be used to approximate ethnicity in Galicia where the population consisted mostly of Ukraimans, Poles, and Jews, but is completely unacceptable in
the Russian Empire since both Ukrainians and Russians are Orthodox. Language understates the number of Ukrainians in both empires, and the Russian Empire especially,
because many Ukrainians abandoned their native language.
The process of sorting out the Ukrainian population by nationality is further complicated by politics. Migration of non-Ukrainians—largely due to occupation by neighbor-
226
ing states—over time resulted in large numbers of people partially assimilated or of
mixed ancestry. Some established permanent ties to one nationality or another while
others considered themselves members of both groups or, perhaps, were indifferent to the
whole issue. Persons with dual identities might identify with either nationality at different times. Without outside pressure, however, individual vacillations in a large group
would cancel out and a fairly stable overall number would emerge. But nationality was
never an indifferent issue to the authorities and people with dual identity were particularly vulnerable to manipulation. Identification with a dominant group was usually advantageous or at least not a liability. Some individuals, therefore, would identify with the
dominant group without any overt coercion. At the same time, census enumeration itself
can be used to influence results. Definition of terms, questions asked or not asked, and
phrasing of questions will skew the numbers. The reported number of Ukrainians in the
censuses is usually understated.
This study begins with the Russian census of 1897 and the Austrian census of 1900.
Since, as stated above, neither census asked respondents to identify their nationality, the
author presents data by language and religion from both. Based on the current boundaries
of Ukraine—the definition of Ukraine used throughout the study—the author estimates
the population of Ukraine at twenty-nine million at the turn of the century, with Ukrainians totaling twenty-one million or 72.4 percent. The share of Ukrainians is substantially
underestimated because many switched language. The 1926 Soviet census indicates that
13 percent of Ukrainians claimed Russian as their native language. During the postwar
period, all countries asked the population to indicate their nationality except Poland,
which continued to enumerate population by language and religion. Sizeable increases of
the Polish population in Ukrainian territory between the wars reflect migration and
changes associated with enumeration. It is unlikely that such a sizeable assimilation or
linguistic shift could have occurred within a comparatively short period of time.
The monograph is basically descriptive. Factors causing assimilation receive little
attention, and the discussion is focused mainly on the territory within the current boundaries of Ukraine. There is no mention of the 7.9 million Ukrainians living in Russia
according to the 1926 census, 3.9 million of whom were living in compact districts along
the Ukrainian border on the Russian side and in the North Caucasus. Since the book is
written for a Polish reader, and in view of the long and painful Polish-Ukrainian relations,
Poles and the Polish-Ukrainian border receive a more detailed treatment. The historical
animosity reached a climax during the Second World War and in the aftermath of the
Soviet-Polish agreement on the "voluntary" population exchanges. Poles were expelled
from western Ukraine and Ukrainians deported from the Ukrainian districts in Poland.
Numerous atrocities were committed in the process. Until the fall of Communism, forced
deportations and associated violence were a taboo subject in Poland and Ukraine.
Professor Eberhardt addresses these issues, but much remains to be done. There is a
discussion of the Ukrainian underground and civilians attacking Poles and forcing them
to flee Ukraine, but there is virtually no discussion of the role of the Soviet Ukrainian
Government. Poles lived largely in towns or adjacent villages, firmly under government
control, and an almost complete exodus of the Polish people could hardly have been
entirely voluntary. With respect to Ukrainians on the Polish side, some old myths about
voluntary repatriation are repeated in the book. Soviet propaganda enticing Ukrainians to
migrate to the Soviet Union was no more successful in 1945-1946 than in 1939-1941. A
small number did leave voluntarily, but most were removed by force. From the end of the
war until the summer of 1946, Polish army and security forces raided and burnt Ukrainian
villages, driving people to the railroad stations for deportation to the east. True, not everyone was marched under guard to the station; some left to escape the fate of the neighboring villages, but that is hardly a voluntary act. The deportation of 1947 to the west and
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north of Poland, Operation Vistula (Akcja Wisła), was by comparison a bloodless affair.
The collapse of Communism and access to the archives will, we hope, result in a more
comprehensive examination of these events, and this study makes an excellent start.
The monograph presents census data on the ethnicity of Ukrainian lands collected by
the various countries, beginning with the 1897 Russian census and ending with the 1989
Soviet census. There is considerable redundancy, but censuses are not readily available,
and the book provides a valuable service to the reader by presenting the data in a single
volume. Extensive bibliography and references to major works are also important contributions. Dramatic events leading to major demographic changes are discussed briefly,
and the reader is referred to a source dealing with the event extensively. This study will be
valuable both to the general reader and to the specialist.
Stephen Rapawy
U. S. Bureau of the Census
THE COLD WAR AND SOVIET INSECURITY: THE STALIN YEARS.
By Vojtech Mastny. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996. 285 pp.,
index. ISBN 0-19-510616-4. $30.00.
With the end of the Cold War, the decades-long historiographical debate over its causes
may also be drawing to a close—or at least shifting to new terrain. Revisionist historians
of the last several decades have offered valuable insights into the actions and motives of
the United States in the Cold War, but the evidence trickling out of the newly opened
Soviet archives has largely vindicated the position of the orthodox camp, which
characterized the Cold War as aggressive Soviet expansionism countered by justifiable
Western efforts at containment. Vojtech Mastny's book, which synthesizes recent
findings about Soviet foreign policy from 1947 to 1953, is one of the best of the recent
batch of works based on the new archival material. Like most of these new works,
Mastny's account offers an essentially traditionalist interpretation, but one that is
considerably more nuanced and well-documented than earlier orthodox accounts.
As the title suggests, The Cold War and Soviet Insecurity attributes the origins of the
Cold War primarily to a deeply rooted sense of insecurity that propelled Stalin toward
aggressive expansionism. This "insatiable quest for security" (p. 194) was a product of
the Soviet government's fundamental lack of legitimacy and an ideologically inspired
belief in the implacable hostility of the capitalist world. Mastny portrays Stalin as
trapped in a Catch-22 of his own making: the more Stalin tried to ensure Soviet security,
the more he encouraged Western resistance—with the result that his foreign policy was
largely unsuccessful in achieving his goals. For example, although Stalin initially hoped
to pursue his interests in a framework of continued cooperation with his wartime allies,
he nevertheless undertook aggressive moves that produced effects opposite to those
intended: Stalin's actions provoked defensive Western responses that made the Soviet
Union less, rather than more, secure.
Ideology, in Mastny's view, played an important, if indirect, role in shaping Stalin's
perceptions of foreign relations. It inspired the conviction that communist victory was
inevitable, but provided no blueprint for world conquest through communist revolution.
An opportunist, but a poor practitioner of Realpolitik, Stalin often allowed his judgments to be clouded by "illusions and wishful thinking" (p. 193). As Mastny amply
demonstrates, new archival evidence contradicts the picture of Stalin as an omniscient
dictator with a "master plan" and shows instead that Stalin's thinking was often ambiva-
228
lent and inconsistent. Stalin did not always know what he wanted and sometimes
pursued contradictory aims (as in the Soviet occupation of eastern Germany). Initially
preferring Eastern Europe "divided and pliable rather than communist" (p. 21), Stalin
moved only gradually toward sovietization, a process spurred by pressures from local
communists. Rather than dictating policy to subordinates and foreign communist parties, Stalin often left them wide latitude to guess at his wishes; not surprisingly, they
often chose to err on the side of greater militancy. Mastny suggests that Stalin was at
times "simply stupid" (p. 126) and that he was prone to miscalculations that sometimes
resulted in serious blunders, including the 1948 Berlin blockade, the split with Tito, and
the authorization of the North Korean adventure.
Because Mastny's research draws on published and archival materials from the
former Soviet Union, Eastern Europe, and the United States, he offers multiple perspectives on events. His expertise in East European affairs allows him to create a particularly
nuanced account of internal politics in the region and their influence on Soviet policies.
He skillfully interweaves events in Asia and Europe, showing how developments in
each arena influenced Soviet policies in the other. His novel interpretations include the
argument that Western covert operations in Eastern Europe were more extensive than
heretofore realized and fueled Soviet fears of Western penetration. He also suggests that
the West missed an opportunity to exploit Soviet vulnerability at the time of Stalin's
death and perhaps bring the Cold War to an early end. Mastny must often resort to
speculation in ascribing motives to Soviet initiatives—even when documents exist, they
can support conflicting interpretations—but his interpretations are plausible and cogently argued.
Mastny's overview of the early Cold War years is a valuable and judicious synthesis
of what has thus far come out of the archives. He is, however, somewhat too sanguine in
his prediction that further revelations are unlikely to yield many surprises. It is too early
to say that historians have a comprehensive picture of the foreign policy of the Soviet
Union; the tantalizing pieces of archival data that have emerged are too fragmentary and
selective to substitute for the years of painstaking research in archives that will be
necessary to establish a truly solid foundation of knowledge. Given current trends in
Russia toward less, rather than more, archival openness, and given the inertia that
continues to delay declassification of key documents on the American side, it may be
many years before anyone can write a definitive history of the Cold War.
Barbara Keys
Harvard University
SECURITY IN EASTERN EUROPE: THE CASE OF UKRAINE. Ed. by
Leonid Kistersky, C. Michael Soussan and Daniel L. Cruise. Providence:
Brown University. 1994, 112pp.
This book is the product of a senior international relations seminar at Brown University,
and is complied and edited by visiting Professor from Ukraine Leonid Kistersky and his
undergraduate students. It explores the emerging situation in Ukraine and demonstrates
how its security is inextricably linked with that of the West.
The book opens with an introduction by P. Terrence Hopmann and Richard Smoke
explaining the value of Ukrainian independence for the West and warning it of potential
problems if developments in Ukraine were unfavorable.
Leonid Kistersky's paper, "General Theory of Ukrainian Security," carefully consid-
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ers the structure of Ukrainian security. The author suggests that Ukraine inherited one of
the world's most vulnerable economic systems and, consequently, a very low security
level in all spheres. Kistersky argues that in order to transform its economic and political
systems—the only practical basis for ensuring security in Ukraine—the country must
effect drastic changes in the mentality of the Ukrainian Parliament and government by
including more able market-oriented politicians. Otherwise, one can hardly expect real
democratic free-market transformations in the country. Examining the role of Western
assistance, Kistersky insists that neither short-term credits nor humanitarian aid will be
of primary importance. Only technical assistance and direct private investments from
abroad will play critical roles in fostering transformation in Ukraine.
Scott Robinson's article focuses on economic problems facing Ukraine and attempts
to explain how a country with such potential has come to such a poor economic state. He
accurately describes the government's 1990-1994 price policy that led the country into
a poor economic situation with high inflation, and demonstrates the Parliament's unprofessional way of dealing with this matter. Robinson recommends ways of carrying out
economic reforms, emphasizing that they should all occur together, as part of a single
program. In conclusion, he maintains that the bureaucracy's attempts to control economic development call into question Ukraine's desire for a truly free market economy.
In his article, Steve Malloy analyses the development of Ukrainian political parties.
Examining the current party system, he demonstrates that although the parties are
changing, they remain underdeveloped and have weak public support. As a consequence
of the Soviet legacy, the population maintains a bias against parties and votes for
independent candidates to the Parliament. In the author's view, the Ukrainian election
system undermines the development of political parties and promotes regionalism.
Brian Smith focuses on regional tendencies in Crimea, Donbas, and Novorosia in his
article. Unfortunately, he gives very little attention to the regional problems in
Zakarpattia. Analyzing the ethnic situation in Ukraine, Smith shows that there is a
significant basis for the fermentation of regional nationalism. Yet the regional authorities do not use this nationalism as a state-building tool to gain independence from
Ukraine, but rather to extend their economic independence from Kyiv. Smith concludes
that as greater economic autonomy is achieved and a secure political system is established, the regional nationalism should decline significantly.
An article by Nancy O'Neill is devoted to the topic of Russians in Ukraine. O'Neill
suggests that in light of Yugoslavia's experience and the ethnic conflicts in Georgia,
Abkhazia, and Moldova, the situation in Ukraine should be a cause for concern to all
member of international community. The author draws the reader's attention to the
legacy of russification, the problem of "Malorossia mentality," and the present political
treatment of ethnic Russians. She singles out the economic situation as a crucial factor
in the Russian minority's attitude in relation to Ukrainian independence. The Russian
minority will advocate rapprochement with Russia and vice versa if the economic
situation in Ukraine continues to deteriorate while Russia's improves.
An article by James Joung-Jun Na addresses non-nuclear military security in
Ukraine. The author examines in detail the composition of the Ukrainian armed forces,
their disposition and equipment, and the military doctrine, and he demonstrates the
problems facing them, stressing the need to reduce the military. Of interest are the
author's analysis of Ukraine's strategic position and recommendations of military and
non-military operations in the case of war with Russia.
Closely related to the previous article is a contribution by C. Michael Soussan and E.
Pier Smulders who summarize the most notable areas of conflict between Russia and
Ukraine and advocate that the West shift its policy towards the region, but that it do so
cautiously so that Russia not interpret the action as a provocation. The authors consider
230
Zbignew Brzezinski's suggestion that the U.S. actively support Ukrainian independence
and strengthen its regional position with a view towards maintaining a counterbalance to
a resurgent Russia as dated and dangerous. The authors argue that such an approach
would only worsen security relations between the two countries. They advocate that the
West concentrate instead on economic factors that could better guarantee future regional
stability.
The book is an impressive compilation of undergraduate student writing, portraying
a fresh and impartial view of events in Ukraine. Security in Eastern Europe: The Case of
Ukraine will be of interest not only to the general reader, but to specialists as well.
Yuriy Smolnikov
Institute of Ukrainian History, Kyiv
BEYOND SOVEREIGNTY: TERRITORY AND POLITICAL
ECONOMY IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY. By David J. Elkins.
Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995. viii, 298 pp. + index. ISBN
(cloth) 0-8020-2940-X; ISBN (paper) 0-8020-7768-4.
There are two basic ways to endeavor to predict the future of society. The most common
way is projecting the impact of technological change. This method is important for David
Elkins. But he also uses the second method: examining the historical background of
contemporary social institutions to determine how such institutions arose and how they
have changed, whether linearly or cyclically. For scholars of the humanities and social
sciences, the second approach is more congenial. Most scholars (including specialists on
nationality) will agree with Elkins that institutions like the nation-state are human
constructs, originating during specific historical periods. Consequently, human agency
should be able to transform or supersede such institutions in the future.
Professor Elkins states his goal in his conclusion (p. 242): "I wish above all to concede
the presumptiveness of territoriality." Earlier (on p. 17) he writes "territoriality is thus the
centerpiece, the keystone, the first among many changes in this exploration of the past and
the future." Territoriality is defined by its principal attributes: (1) continuity, that is, the
exclusion of enclaves so common in the medieval period (remnants such as San Marino
and Monaco are sufficient illustrations); and (2) contiguity of all parts of the state. Here
Elkins recognizes the existence of numerous anomalies, even if one does not consider
intervention of bodies of water (as between Northern Ireland and Great Britain) to violate
the principle of contiguity. Outstanding examples of noncontiguity are Alaska for the
United States and Kaliningrad Oblast for the Russian Republic.
Certainly one must recognize that territoriality has not been constant throughout
history. Ethnic groups with intense cultural and psychic solidarity, such as mobilized
diasporas, have existed for millenia. Until a few generations ago, non-European polities
relied on shifting relations of suzerainty and zones of influence shading off into neighboring polities. If such ambiguity has been widespread historically, one can assume that
the sharply defined territory of the modern nation-state is not the only feasible basis for
future political organization. Nevertheless, the idea of territorial primacy may be imbedded in European societies or even the whole of Indo-European culture. Linguistic
evidence presented by Emile Benveniste in Le vocabulaire des institutions indoeuropéennes (especially vol. I, bk. 3, Paris, 1969) is persuasive on this point. Or
consider the antiquity of well-defined territorial partition among Greek city-states,
perpetuated in the subdivisions of the Roman Empire. In suggesting (pp. 243^4-5) the
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possibility of twenty-first century city-states with overlapping hinterlands, Elkins appears not to realize the contrary force of historical precedents.
Part of Elkins's difficulty arises from the perennial problem of establishing relevant
time-scales. His future perspective is neatly circumscribed by the twenty-first century.
Hence it is understandable that he should wish to draw analogies to a past period equally
sharply defined and restricted to as few centuries as possible. In fact, Elkins repeatedly
cites the Treaty of Westphalia as the beginning of the territorial nation-state period, and
even abbreviates this period a bit by frequently referring to "three centuries." As classic
expositions like Hans J. Morgenthau's Politics Among Nations (New York, 1949), point
out (p. 210), however, Westphalia "made the territorial state the cornerstone of the
modern state system," i.e., of the international order. Yet territorial nation-states had
not merely existed at least a century earlier (see especially Liah Greenfeld, Nationalism:
Five Roads to Modernity, Cambridge, Mass., 1992), but were the true authors of the new
order, drastically limiting the influence of quasi-religious Habsburg-type empires. Germany, the principal subject of the treaty, remained a realm of fragmented minipowers.
Nevertheless, territoriality had become evident there centuries earlier as territorial
principalities, including ecclesiastical domains, gradually replaced feudalism. Such
territorial influence drastically altered the designations and linguistic patterns of the
early medieval Stämme (Richard Wenskus, Stammesbildung und Verfassung, Cologne,
1961). As late as the 1960s, Dittmar Dahlmann and Ralph Tuchtenhagen (eds.,
Zwischen Reform und Revolution, Essen, 1994, pp. 31 Iff) show how migrants from
southwest Germany to the Volga region thought of themselves as culturally and religiously distinct from Russians, but not as "Germans."
Much of the difficulty with historical precedents could have been avoided if (as in
his previous work) Elkins had emphasized sovereignty more than territoriality. Not only
is sovereignty an obviously "invented" legal category, but its elevation at Westphalia
above religion (cujus regio, ejus religio) was never fully accepted. The quasi-totalitarian
implications of this Westphalian formula remain troubling, given Elkins' insistence
(p. 101) that "the concept of rights as inherent in the individual" arose at the same time
rather than through the gradual ascendancy of the Christian principle of individual
responsibility.
More convincing is his thesis that the rapid acceptance (during the eighteenth
century) of the idea of "economic man" set limits on state power. Whereas both the
extreme nationalist right and the Marxist left have railed against the "machinations of
international capitalism," Elkins is surely correct in pointing to the growing influence of
transnational business in eroding the rigid pretensions of sovereignty. He is also on
target in emphasizing the heightened realization that separate nation-states can no
longer assure prosperity in an era when international currency transactions daily determine the value of each national monetary unit. Still, one must enter a caveat: during
extreme depressions, an authority like F. D. Roosevelt can temporarily thwart international exchange mechanisms by not only abandoning fixed standards but making gold
bullion possession a felony.
Clearly both world social and economic trends are heavily influenced by technological change. Elkins emphasizes two aspects of such changes: (1) universalization of
media audiences; and (2) ubiquity of personal communication across frontiers. In
principle, satellite TV transmission has created a worldwide audience. In Tehran, according to recent reports, homemade "dish" receivers permit reception of Western
images. Over shorter distances such effects were apparent decades ago in Estonian
reception of Finnish television broadcasts and in the "subversive" influence of Berlin's
"Radio in the American Sector" on East Germans. Computers have similar implications
for the personal networks Elkins believes will erode sovereign allegiances. One should
232
recall, however, that although Brezhnev tolerated long-distance telephone calls to Jewish dissidents, such communication networks are not immune to determined totalitarian
interdiction.
Equally recalcitrant to electronic penetration is language differentiation. Apparently
virtually monolingual (he cites only one non-English source, a Quebec publication),
Elkins repeatedly depreciates the perduring effects of language. He writes, "One should
note parenthetically that languages tend to be territorial" (p. 36), but never gets much
beyond this interjection. Later he speculates that "as English becomes the language of
international relations, trade, science, and art, it loses its exclusive ties to particular
pieces of territory. Hence it may be less threatening (even in Q u e b e c ) . . . " (p. 258). I
should be the first to acknowledge that languages do change over centuries, as do their
speakers' commitments to them. However, in the shorter run—even decades long—the
historical record demonstrates that the profound affect of language (territorial or not) is
hard for any convenient vehicular language to displace.
Elkins cogently points to the increasing role of supranational intrusions on sovereignty. The United Nations, GATT, OPEC, and the World Bank have been significant.
Yet the abject political failures in Yugoslavia and the misplaced confidence in ThirdWorld economies like Mexico's, point just as strongly to limitations of such institutional change. The Helsinki agreements legitimizing outside interference in favor of
human rights were indeed important in eroding Soviet controls; but economic sanctions
(mainly American and German) imposed by nation-states over the objections of
transnational businesses exerted essential pressures.
Numerous specific formulas for institutional change suggested by Elkins relate to
Canada. An outstanding political scientist born in Iowa and trained in California, Elkins
is a naturalized Canadian. In my inexpert opinion, his proposals for Canadian constitutional change are very fair. He thus criticizes English-speakers for privileging the
concept of "Canadian nationhood" above "Quebec Nationhood," and advocates federal
non-territorial entities for Francophones outside Quebec as well as for Native Americans in Canada. He emphatically recognizes the needs of cultural minorities as well as
the more entrenched Anglo-American emphasis on individual rights. In so doing, Elkins
accords an important place to government wherever (as in Canada) it still commands
strong respect. Yet his search (p. 260) for "shared sovereignty" protecting minorities
against majority rule runs up against his highly realistic conclusion that "Whoever
collects the taxes is the state, whether territorial or not." From this conclusion it is not a
long step—nor an ascending one—to the comment of that skeptical contemporary of
Westphalia, Jean de La Fontaine, "la raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure."
John A. Armstrong
Emeritus, University of Wisconsin-Madison
RUSSIANS IN THE FORMER SOVIET REPUBLICS. By Paul Kolstoe.
Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1995. 340+ix pages. ISBN
(cloth) 0-8020-2940-X; ISBN (paper) 0-8020-7768-4.
Paul Kolstoe has produced a sharp manuscript on Russia's 25-million person question—
the new Russian diaspora. He sketches a history dramatically distinct from standard
diaspora politics; David Laitin has cheekily termed the Russians a "beached minority,"
that did not leave its homeland but rather was left by it. Expectations in the field following
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the Soviet collapse were that the problems experienced by these new homeless would be
acute and that tensions should be expected to grow in regions where Russians were the
most concentrated: northeast Estonia, Transdniester Moldova, Crimea, and northern
Kazakhstan. Demand for diaspora research was, understandably, at a premium.
As an overview of the step-by-step process leading to the Russian diaspora, this
volume is written from a historical perspective. Treating first the Tsarist and Soviet
policies that dispersed the Russian population throughout the Eurasian landmass, and
then the emergent policies of the Soviet republics cum independent states through
perestroika and after, Kolstoe has an extraordinary feel for the Russian diaspora map.
For this excursion through Russian migrations and a comparative fieldbook for the
differentiation between Russian populations in the Baltics, the western NIS, the Caucasus, and Central Asia, Kolstoe has done his homework.
Kolstœ's diaspora expertise comes out clearly in his choice to treat Kyrgyzstan and
Kazakhstan separately from the other Southern Tier republics because of varied pressures, strains, opportunities, and resources available to the Russian communities there.
Types and times of Russian migrations differed in these republics and so, accordingly,
did their post-Soviet reactions. In the latter, Russians fled; in the former, they posed
alternative visions for nation- and state-building processes. Russians in the Former
Soviet Republics narrates these stories authoritatively.
Kolstoe presents his discussion of Russian minorities as an '"action-reaction" cycle,
where state policies engage minority action, which in turn affects policies, and so on. He
further recognizes that other actors are also critical, namely the Russian government.
Kolstoe explicates this in a concluding chapter, focused specifically on the role and
actors of the Russian Government and its policy toward the diaspora.
Kolstoe's approach is undeniably an advance on those that characterize state policies
as monolithic. But focusing on the Russian government separately, Kolstoe overreacts,
writing more about Moscow's inclinations than its capabilities. Despite real policy
dilemmas over Estonia, Moldova, and Kazakhstan, Russian intervention in the Near
Abroad has been largely limited to areas where Russians distinctly were not present—
Karabagh, Tajikistan, Abkhazia. Indeed, the only substantial Russian intervention into a
Russian "diaspora" area was in Chechnya, which was hardly on behalf of the local
Russian population. On the questions of the Russian diaspora abroad, Moscow has been
unable and unwilling to involve itself.
The Russian diaspora has thus become the post-Soviet dog that didn't bark, with
Russians leaving countries where tensions were most acute (Armenia, Azerbaijan,
Georgia, Tajikistan), becoming more or less loyal citizens where economies were
substantially better than that of Russia (Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania), and accepting,
however grudgingly, their new minority status in the countries that fell in between
(Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan). This was true precisely because of Russia's extraordinary inability to project its power.
This caveat, which has become most apparent in the time since the publication of
Kolstoe's volume, should not detract from what is overall an excellent work. Russians
in the Former Soviet Republics combines strong historical research, impressive fieldwork, and a solid comparative approach to illuminate the growth—and decline—of the
Russian diaspora. It should quickly become a standard reference.
Ian Bremmer
Institute of East-West Studies
234
THE PROSECUTION OF INTERNATIONAL CRIMES: A CRITICAL
STUDY OF THE INTERNATIONAL TRIBUNAL FOR THE FORMER
YUGOSLAVIA. Edited by Roger S. Clark and Madeleine Sann. Transaction Publishers, 1996. 502 pp. ISBN (cloth) 1560002697.
In the fall of 1997, the term of office of the judges of the International Criminal Tribunal
for the former Yugoslavia, established by U.N. Resolution 808 on 5 May 1993, was
scheduled to end. With the beginning of a new era and a Western emphasis on human
rights, it is timely to examine the goals of the Tribunal and the philosophical foundations leading to its creation. A critical examination of its achievement level is currently
taking place in a number of forums.
This volume of essays, originally collected from the Criminal Law Forum; an
International Journal, was edited by Roger S. Clark, editor in chief and Madeleine Sann,
director of publications. The essays were written at the time that arguments in behalf of
U.N. Resolution 808 and the hopes of its sponsors were fresh. It is even more timely
now than at the time of its publication in 1996.
The atrocities committed in the former Yugoslav territory were thoroughly investigated and documented. Executions, torture, rape, inhuman treatment of both civilians
and military internees, and other crime against humanity were outlined in the essay
written by M. Cherif Bossiouni, the former Chairman and Rapporteur on the Gathering
and Analysis of Facts of he Commission of Experts created by U.N. Security Council
Resolution 780 in 1992. His essay reviewed the circumstances leading to the establishments of the commission and examined its goal of investigating and gathering evidence
on "grave breaches of the Geneva Conventions and other violations of international
humanitarian law" in the conflict in the former Yugoslavia. Specific findings were also
revealed and discussed in considerable detail.
A total of nine rapporteurs were appointed pursuant to Resolution 780. The gathering of evidence continued until March 31, 1994, when the term of the Commission of
Experts was deemed to be still uncompleted. However, United Nations Secretary General Bhoutras Bhoutras Ghali determined that it was time to move on to the next stage.
The Commission's extensive findings of substantial crimes against humanity led to
the creation of the Yugoslavian War Crimes Tribunal through U.N. Resolution 827 in
1993. This action also paved the way to the establishment of the Rwandan Tribunal
through Resolution 955 the following year.
An essay by Peter Burns, a Member of the United Nations Committee Against
Torture and Cruel and Inhumane Treatment and Punishment, who is also Professor of
Law at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, details the creation of the
Tribunal itself. Following a significant historical analysis of the foundation of the
concept of war crimes tribunals commencing with the Nuremberg experience, Professor
Burns point out the prevailing need to establish a permanent independent international
criminal tribunal with broad jurisdiction to address such action regardless of time or
locus. Referring to the work of the Commission of Experts as the catalyst to U.N.
Resolution 808, which formally established the Tribunal on February 22, 1993, he cites
the latter as a momentous step forward in putting an impartial international mechanism
in place. Professor Burns also examined the statutory basis of the Tribunal and detailed
its areas of jurisdiction.
Professor David P. Forsythe, Chairman of the Political Science Department, University of Nebraska, puts a realistic spin on the discussion of the Tribunal in his essay
outlining the political considerations affecting its functioning. Suggesting that there is
no clear distinction between law and politics, he is prophetic in his view that sustaining
the lofty goals of the Tribunal will not always be feasible. Subsequent events showed his
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analysis to hold true. In July 1997, the ruling Bosnian Serb president, Biljana Plavsic,
was ejected from her ruling party after telling the German press that she would support
the arrest of Radovan Karadzic, who is considered the Tribunal's primary war crimes
suspect.
Professor Forsythe and other essayists cite the conflict between the power of the
Tribunal to indict alleged war criminals and the defendants' home countries' unwillingness to surrender them. These jurisdictional and political issues have indeed stymied the
effectiveness of the Tribunal.
Although the host country, the Netherlands, is willing to hold indicted prisoners who
are brought within its boundaries, it cannot invade the jurisdiction of the home states.
The United Nations directive to the home states to cooperate in the apprehension of
indicated criminals is unenforceable without the threat of serious NATO military involvement, which all participants are anxious to avoid.
The international community's inability to create an effective mechanism for arrest
and enforcement caused Antonio Cassese, the Tribunal's president, to threaten to propose the termination of the Tribunal's mandate in 1997. Former Chief Prosecutor
Richard Goldstone likewise appealed or top-level arrests.
University of Idaho Professor Kenneth S. Gallant's essay further examines the issue
of securing the presence of defendants. He feels that the ability to obtain their presence
is pivotal to the Tribunal's success. Of interest to the legally trained reader is his
examination of the indictment, summons, warrant and provisional arrest procedures. He
is one of several essayists who also discuss the presentation of defendants' rights under
the Tribunal's Rules of Procedure and Evidence.
In addition to the essays, the appendices also are of particular interest. Appendix A
consists of the full text of U.N. Resolution 780 and the inclusive philosophical foundation of the Resolution followed by the text of Resolution 808, in which the United
Nations decided to direct establishment of the Tribunal. The text of Resolution 827
approving the report of the Secretary General and formally creating the Tribunal also
follows. Appendix В contains the Secretary General's report and the Statute of the
Tribunal while Appendix С details the Rules of Procedure and Evidence in total text.
The Rules of Procedure are fascinating to readers with a legal background who would
automatically compare the rules with those of their home state or the Federal Rules.
The editors complete this comprehensive study with Appendix D, which contains the
text of U.N. Resolution 935 (1994), establishing the International Tribunal for Rwanda
and the Statute of the Rwandan Tribunal.
At the time that this volume appeared, criticism of the Tribunal for the Former
Yugoslavia has focused on the fact that of seventy-four persons indicted for crimes by
the Tribunal, only one had pleaded guilty and been sentenced, five were in custody and
one other Bosnian Serb accused of atrocities was standing trial. None of the defendants
in custody were top political or military leaders. This makes some of the skepticism
expressed or implied by some of the essayists chronicled in this volume seem all the
more prophetic.
This book, however, reveals the hopes and goals of a civilized segment of society for
international justice. The rules of procedure and evidence are well-conceived and
properly in place. Although events in the interviewing period have given reason for
skepticism, this book admirably records the attempts of states to enforce humanity in the
international arena. It is more important today than at the time of its original publication.
Paul Thomas Rabchenuk
Marblehead, Massachusetts
236
PRAY FOR GOD'S WISDOM: THE MYSTICAL SOPHIOLOGY OF
METROPOLITAN ANDREY SHEPTYTSKY. By Andriy Chirovsky.
Ottawa, Ontario: The Metropolitan Andrey Sheptytsky Institute of Eastern
Christian Studies, 1992, xx + 279 pp. Bibliograpgy, Index. ISBN 1695937-00-0.
In 1996 Ukrainian Catholics celebrated the 400th anniversary of the union of their church
with the see of Rome at the council of Brest. A major twentieth-century figure of this
church is Andrey Sheptytsky who, as Metropolitan of Halych, was head of the Ukrainian
Catholic Church for the first four decades of the twentieth century—very difficult times
for Christians in general and eastern Catholics in particular. In 1984 an international
colloquium on Sheptytsky was held in Toronto, focusing on the activities of this
important spiritual shepherd.
Chirovsky's book, originally a doctoral dissertation, presents itself as a study of
Sheptytsky's thought rather than his activities. It examines his life and writings, especially on the theme of wisdom, and offers various translations from his works in four
appendices. The personal history of Sheptytsky, a descendant of Ukrainian-turnedPolish aristocrats who became a Basilian monk and transferred to the Ukrainian "rite,"
presages his significance as head of the Ukrainian Catholic Church. To Soviet authorities he had to defend the right of Christian belief and worship, to his flock to present the
challenge of the Gospel, to Vatican authorities and even to his own Latinized clergy to
introduce a return to purer eastern liturgical and spiritual traditions, to the Orthodox to
urge the necessity of organic church unity. To these ends Sheptytsky devoted himself as
a tireless shepherd, writing up to 150 pastoral letters which are, as Chirovsky says, a
"systematic catechesis" for the needs of his flock.
But it is in the sophiological thought of the Metropolitan that the author is primarily
interested. This thought is expressed mainly in two of Sheptytsky's works, published as
The Wisdom of God and Christian Righteousness. These were parts one and three of a
projected four-volume work on Christian wisdom. Part two was written but never
published because of the author's dissatisfaction with it, while part four was never
written. The first book is an examination, more prayerful than systematic, of the concept
of wisdom as it is expressed in the Scriptures and starting from the pivotal passage of
James 1:5 ("If any of you is without wisdom, let him ask it from the God who gives
generously and ungrudgingly to all, and it will be given him"). In this work the author
blends Aquinas with patristic insights. In his second book, Sheptytsky offers a treatment
of sin, justification, and grace heavily influenced by Aquinas and the council of Trent,
as his discussion of faith is influenced by that same council as well as by Vatican I.
As an Easterner, Sheptytsky was uncomfortable with the precision of scholastic
distinctions, Chirovsky claims (many Westerners are as well, one might rejoin), especially of that between wisdom as divine gift and virtue. Better at synthesizing than at
distinguishing, as Chirovsky admits, Sheptytsky virtually identifies wisdom with peace
and love. Although he quotes the Fathers, he is basically Thomistic in his substance and
approach, even borrowing apophatic terminology from St. Thomas. Part of the problem
with the Metropolitan's attempt is that Ukrainian is not a rich language for theological
subtlety (p. 110) and needs to develop philosophical terms. Additionally, he was devoted to the papacy, which wanted Easterners to think like Westerners (p. 214).
Since Sheptytsky did not realize his ambitious writing plan, it follows that he did not
complete a full treatment of Christian wisdom. For this reason Chrirovsky devotes
Chapter 3 of his study to examining occasional references to wisdom in the
Metropolitan's other works. As these are given in an appendix of the present work, we
can see what slender support they would give to any systematic study of Sheptytsky's
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theological or mystical thought. He frequently exhorted his flock to seek wisdom (thus
the title of the present work) and interpreted wisdom as the Christian's way of
divinization, in the traditional eastern expression.
In 1887 Sheptytsky met Solc/ev in Moscow. A chapter of the present book discusses this significant figure as well as two other Russian sophiologists, Bulgakov and
Florensky. The influences they had on their Ukrainian contemporary are elusive, and
significant differences separate them. Sheptytsky does not have, for instance, the same
cosmological concerns; they, on the other hand, do not share his moral emphasis.
Neither does he accept their identification of Wisdom with the divine essence, which
according to orthodox Christian teaching cannot be known. And with Christian tradition
Sheptytsky insists on identifying Wisdom with the second person of the Trinity, as these
Russians do not. Nevertheless, he is at one with them in seeing the Church as necessary
in the realization of God's plan and in wanting to bring the Fathers into dialogue with
modern humanity.
Andrey Sheptytsky was an extraordinary pastor who wanted to return to the pure
springs of eastern spirituality and to communicate this to his faithful. His works are full
of homiletic asides meant for instruction and exhortation to what Chirovsky calls "moral
maximalism." Trained in the scholasticism of the Thomistic revival he profited by the
rigor and precision of western thought in general and that of St. Augustine in particular,
especially on wisdom and grace. He nonetheless was an Easterner, with a deep appreciation for the Fathers of the Eastern tradition, whom he regularly quotes alongside the
western writers. Not a great scholar in the academic sense, with a meager critical
apparatus and a heavy dependence on Aquinas (whom he quotes more often than all the
Fathers combined, as Chirovsky tells us on p. 212n76) , Sheptytsky was an eclectic
thinker. That he was an original thinker, as is claimed in the book, may well be true, but
it cannot be said that the case is proved. To what degree one can be both Eastern and
Western at the same time is still a question that needs to be explored as the ecumenical
dialogue continues.
In stating that Sheptytsky's understanding of wisdom was in line with patristic
thought, the author implies that this latter is a clear enough reality to be discerned. But
which Fathers are being examined in depth and what thought is being systematically
treated, are questions which are not without pertinence here. In calling for future studies
to examine the patristic teaching on wisdom, the author is admitting that this is not as
clear as we should like to think. Sheptytsky's world was one in which east and west met.
This was a world in which he lived and ministered, and a world in which he sought
elusive Lady Wisdom.
George С Berthold
Manchester, New Hampshire
WESTERN USE AND ABUSE OF EASTERN LITURGICAL
TRADITIONS: SOME CROSS-SECTIONS IN ITS HISTORY. By Bryan
D. Spinks. Placid Lecture Series, no. 14. Rome and Bangalore: Centre for
Indian and Inter-religious Studies and Dharmaram Publications, 1992. ii,
156 pp.
This book is an important piece of synthesis and analysis which, one hopes, will be
reissued by a publisher worthy of Bryan Spinks' talents. Most of the book comprises the
1992 Placid lectures, a series published by the two institutions listed above, now
238
HARVARD UKRAINIAN STUDIES XXI ( 1-2)
notorious for their inept editing. The reader should therefore not be deceived by the
book's shoddy form.
While the author, a specialist in Calvinist and East Syrian worship, has devoted
proportionately little attention to Byzantine liturgy, focusing on the Maronite, Assyrian
and Malabar Rites, Ukrainian liturgists will nonetheless find a very useful
contextualization for their own analyses of Byzantine-Slavonic/Western liturgical interaction. They will also profit from the insightful discussion of fundamental questions
such as the nature of "East" and "West" in a shrinking world, the problem of "returning
to the past" in liturgical reform, and the definitional role of worship in communities
threatened by assimilation. One hopes that Spinks will expand his analysis of such
questions elsewhere.
The book begins with a discussion of diversity as constitutive of Church. Chapter
Two summarizes the history of first millennial Western liturgical borrowing from the
East. While the influence of Eastern liturgies on Western usage seems to relativize the
legitimate complaints of Easterners regarding Latinization, Spinks appropriately indicates that borrowing in this earlier period tended towards creative adaptation rather than
inorganic imposition. All the same, as the author writes later, quoting Robert Taft, there
is no reason a priori why Eastern Christian worship should not be influenced by Western
developments; in addition to other reasons, Western Christianity itself once submitted to
Eastern influence.
The next chapter is entitled "The Latinization of the Maronites and the Thomas
Christians of India." Among the former, Roman pressure mounted in the thirteenth
century soon after the Maronites' first contact with the crusaders. Until the sixteenth
century the Maronites were able to ignore many of Rome's demands for Latinization.
However, in 1596 (the same year as the Union of Brest) a Maronite Synod accepted a
Latinized missal printed in Rome. By the eighteenth century the indigenous rites of
penance and communion of the sick were replaced by Roman counterparts, and a
version of the Roman canon as well as the Roman Confirmation rite were imposed. By
the next century the Maronites were using Latin vestments and unleavened hosts, and
communicating under one species.
Among the Thomas Christians, pressure to conform to Roman practice was exerted
within twenty years after the arrival of the Portuguese in 1498. By 1599 the Synod of
Diamper fundamentally refashioned the Rite practiced by the Malabars. Responding to
Latin suspicions of heresy the Synod ordered the burning of many Indian liturgical
books. By 1775 a translation of the Rituale Romanum had replaced the Malabar
sacramentary. Ukrainian liturgists will note that while these same centuries witnessed
the greatest Latinization of the Ruthenian Church, the latter was spared the more
extreme forms imposed on the Maronites and Malabars.
Chapters Four to Eight discuss the use of Eastern liturgies as "proof texts" in
Protestant/Catholic polemics, the adaptation of Eastern texts in Anglican and Protestant
formularies, the Latinization of the Chaldean Church, the interference of American
Presbyterian agendas in the East Syrian Rite, and the submission of certain East Indians
to Anglican influence. Most importantly, Spinks illustrates how the Assyrian and
Malabar Churches both suffered division as a result of their contact with Western
Christianity.
Chapter Nine deals with the influence of Eastern rites on twentieth-century Western
liturgical reform. This is one section where, in spite of Spinks' declared focus, greater
attention to Byzantine influences would have been appropriate. Spinks correctly mentions the role of Lambert Beauduin in inaugurating the Western liturgical movement; it
was the Belgian Benedictine's travels to places like Pochaïv and Constantinople that
helped stimulate his efforts.
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The last chapter, entitled "Some Theological and Liturgical Reflections," pulls
together the more fundamental questions alluded to earlier. Spinks also mentions that
Byzantine Christians have not been immune to liturgical chauvinism when placed in
positions of dominance over weaker Churches. A reference to Theodore Balsamon's
insistence that all Orthodox Christians should be required to follow the Byzantine Rite
would have been apropos here. Nonetheless, as Spinks indicates, it is the West which
has exploited struggling Eastern communities more consistently.
Finally, Spinks notes that at present the Eastern Churches can help Western worship
regain a sense of the transcendent. His arguments are compelling, and the fact that he
finally turns to the question of liturgical ethos indicates that ritual cross-fertilization
need not be—in fact rarely has been—confined to texts. The nature of documentary
evidence understandably has caused Spinks to focus on the movement of written materials in the liturgical interchange between East and West. One hopes that he will soon
return to the topic to reflect more directly on the way in which different liturgical
visions and styles have also been traded, imposed, and suppressed.
We mentioned earlier that this book is replete with typographical errors. One wonders whether the printers speak English. Every page contains at least several spelling
mistakes, word omissions or substitutions, some of them hilariously inept. On page 47,
for example, we read that "The American [sic] rite as used by the Uniates was printed in
1548." "Armenian," of course, was intended. Incidentally, the term "Uniate," used by
Spinks on several occasions, has increasingly acquired a negative flavor. While in a few
exceptional cases it is difficult to find an appropriate substitute, authors should respect
the sensibilities of modern Eastern Catholics.
Peter Galadza
Sheptytsky Institute of Eastern Christian Studies,
Saint Paul University, Ottawa
CHURCH UNITY: UNION OR UNIATISM? CATHOLIC-ORTHODOX
ECUMENICAL PERSPECTIVES. By Ernst С Suttner. Trans, by Brian
McNeil, C.R.V. Placid Lecture Series, no. 13, Centre for Indian and Interreligious Studies, Rome. Kottayam, Kerala, India: St. Joseph's Press, 1991.
x, 151pp. $8.00 paper.
The Placid Lectures, inaugurated in 1978 by the Centre for Indian and Inter-religious
Studies [Corso Vittorio Emanuele 294/10; 00186 Rome] in honor of Dr. Placid Podipara,
C.M.I. (1899-1985), a distinguished scholar of the Syro-Malabar Church of the St.
Thomas Christians of Kerala, India, are delivered annually in Rome and subsequently
published in Kottayam. Unfortunately, these publications are not widely known outside
of a small circle of scholars since they are not marketed through the established
publishing houses. This is a pity, because the speakers are scholars doing research at the
cutting edge of their fields. This present volume is the work of the well-known Austrian
expert on Eastern Christianity, Professor Ernst Christoph Suttner, director of the Institut
fur Patrologie und Ostkirchenkunde at the University of Vienna. The lectures were
translated by Brian McNeil, who himself delivered the 1987 lectures on the topic One
City, One Bishop? One must ignore the poor quality paper and type-setting used for this
volume produced under less than ideal conditions. The richness of the theme and of the
research, however, amply compensates for the appearance.
Given the recent tensions in Eastern Europe between the Orthodox and Eastern
240
Catholic ("Uniate") churches, and the troubled consultations of the Joint International
Commission for Theological Dialogue between the Orthodox Church and the Roman
Catholic Church that led to the recent publication of a joint consensus statement, the socalled Balamand document "Uniatism, Method of Union of the Past, and the Present
Search for Full Communion" (23 June 1993), the material found in this volume is
preeminently topical. The research also provides a useful exegesis of that International
Consultation's earlier agreed statements: "The Mystery of the Church and of the Eucharist in the Light of the Mystery of the Holy Trinity" (Munich, 1982), "Faith, Sacraments
and the Unity of the Church" (Bari, 1987), and "The Sacrament of Order in the
Sacramental Structure of the Church" (Valamo, 1988).
Suttner organizes his lectures around six topics. Chapter One discusses the theology
of local churches in light of the teaching of Lumen gentium and in harmony with
Eastern ecclesiology, championed today by many Orthodox theologians, especially
John Zizioulas. He reclaims the ancient insight that the assembly called "church" fully
manifests itself in the eucharistie synaxis. The following chapter pursues this theme
more fully by raising the question, "What if the local churches stand in a relationship of
mutual schism?" Does this, he asks, affect salvific impact if the communion of the
church is broken? This is answered by showing that historically, at least in the first
millennium, every time disruptions occurred, both parties were convinced that these
problems did not reach into the ultimate depths, and sacramental ecclesial life continued
on both sides.
Chapter Three is a stinging rejection of Uniatism, described as a "reductio in
oboedientiam." This Uniatism is not an equal binding together in love and mutual
respect, but an oppressive relationship between one church which perceives itself as
"mother" and superior, and a second "daughter" inferior church, required first and
foremost to show obedience. The mother church puts pressure on the child to create a
relationship of unequals. In words that anticipate the Balamand document, Suttner states
categorically that, "Uniatism cannot be defended in any form between churches which
have regained the ecclesiological insight that they are sister churches equal in rank . . . "
(p. 34).
The very long fourth chapter illustrates reunion pitfalls by appeal to sixteen examples drawn from ecclesiastical history, where the attempts ultimately came to be seen
as deeply flawed. To cite only one of Suttner's examples, the Union of Brest is shown to
be marred, despite its good intentions, by Rome's inability to distinguish between its
own papal and patriarchal jurisdictions. Rome did not see that Eastern churches entering
into full communion with it must, of necessity, be related to Rome in a way different
from that of Western dioceses under a Roman patriarch. The footnotes to this chapter
are extensive and draw from a broad cross-section of literature from a variety of
languages and confessions.
The fifth chapter, much shorter, describes uniformity achieved through uniatism as a
caricature of church unity. But, ironically, here the author shows that Orthodoxy itself
displayed some uniatizing tendencies when, from local churches and from individual
converts, to whom it granted communion, it demanded obedience to what seemed to it
as the only right manner of being a Christian. Here Suttner pleads for a large measure of
openness and of multiplicity in the church, as it actually existed in its earliest days.
The final chapter, "Union without Uniatism," is a visionary description of what an
ideal form of reunion might in fact look like; one that does not seek to oppress or
dominate, but to exult in complementarity. He argues for the need of antecedent pastoral
work to effect a coming together of equals. Whether church leaders have the imagination or the courage to reject subtle oppression of the other is not all that clear. But it is
certainly not impossible.
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241
The book reflects the directness of oral presentation, but the arguments are consistently and cogently reasoned. The English reading public deserves to have more of
Suttner available in translation. The scholarship that he wears lightly and his courage
could enrich us all.
Michael A. Fahey, S.J.
St. Michael's College, University of Toronto
RELIGION AND SOCIETY IN RUSSIA: THE SIXTEENTH AND
SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES. By Paul Bushkovitch. New York, Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1992. vi, 278 pp. ISBN (cloth) 0195069463.
Several reviewers have already discussed Paul Bushkovitch's book and have given
Religion and Society in Russia a welcome appraisal. The liveliness of this discussion
could be seen as the author's greatest achievement, for the book appears to be the first
general examination in English of Russian spiritual life in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries. The information and ideas found in the book should be useful in American
college courses on Russian history. Bushkovitch's analysis could inspire anew generation
of American scholars to explore some questions which are still rather obscure in prePetrine Russian history.
As the author states in the introduction, his goal is to "trace the character of the
changes in religious life of the landholding elite of the Russian society" (p. 7). At the
same time the author is preoccupied with the notion of "Westernization" in seventeenthcentury Russia while trying to set aside the essentially Slavophile notions of an immutable medieval Russia. He hopes these corrections will lead to a more comprehensive
understanding of the Russian religious experience. Bushkovitch does this by describing,
rather unsystematically, certain events in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Reading the introduction, a reader could not ascertain the exact focus of the book. Is it the
history of the Orthodox church? The history of culture? The history of popular belief?
The history of ideas? The absence of a sharp focus is not the best starting point for
research, particularly of a book discussing such a complicated subject as Russian
religious history.
The formal structure of the book is well shaped: Bushkovitch begins the story with
Peter, and he ends the story with a Pushkinesque aphorism: "The evolution of religious
life and thought inside Russia brought the country up to the gate of Europe, Peter
opened it." (p. 179). Several main ideas are well articulated and seem to be very
attractive, although I would prefer to call those ideas rather seductive. Bushkovitch's
explanations sometimes look too chronologically organized to be a part of an obscure
and chaotic Russian medieval history. A cautious reader needs to remain soberly critical
while trying to evaluate the new approach taken by the author.
Some particularly felicitous observations should be pointed out, such as
Bushkovitch's insights on the 1549 council's sources (p. 82-85) and on Nikon's abdication (p. 63-68). Three chapters are especially convincing and well executed: Chapter
two ("The Landholding class and its Religious World") and chapters four and five
("Saints and Miracles in Church Policy" and "The Era of Miracles," respectively). The
author, however, treats only the miracle shrines as manifestations of popular religous
sentiment, leaving out the celebrated place where miracles took place—the church with
its symbolic language and liturgical space. Church services as well as parish life and
routine religious regulations also escaped the author's attention. Some scholars could
242
excuse Ulis by claiming the near absence of original sources on the day-to-day life of a
Russian medieval lay man or woman. In contrast, I would argue that we do have many
direct and indirect sources on ordinary religious life among the medieval Rus' population. S. I. Smirnov's analysis of the spiritual father and penitential regulations in
medieval Rus', publications on the social institution of pechalovanie, A. Papkov's
articles and book on the life of a medieval parish, and the publication of the acts of
Kholmogorskii and Ustiuzhskii bishoprics in the Russian Historical Library provide
unique information concerning routine religious life, but the author failed to mention
these publications.
Bushkovitch based some of his general observations on the ostensible decline of
monasticism after about 1530. This thesis, which seems to be a reincarnation of
Fedotov's idea of the decline of Russian spirituality, is groundless. The author spends
little time proving his idea. The decline of monasticism, argues Bushkovitch, produced
a vacuum of spiritual life, which the church intended to fulfill with the growing role of
bishops, and with a new interest in miracle cults in the seventeenth century. First and
foremost, the contradiction between a monk and a bishop seems to me not historically
validated but invented by the author, since the only way to be elevated to the seat of a
bishop was to first be tonsured a monk. The vacuum in spiritual life pronounced by
Bushkovitch does not match with our notion of the flourishing of official cults in the late
sixteenth century, and looks very unconvincing in light of the Time of Troubles, with its
spiritual visions and tales of different miracles in the early seventeenth century.
Bushkovitch even fails to admit the very significant establishment of the Russian
patriarchate as an institution in 1589.
In chapters six and seven ("The Beginning of Change" and "The Rise of the Sermon," respectively) the author does not make use of the best book published on the
subject—Aleksandr Panchenko's Russkaia kultura ν kanun Petrovskikh reform
(Leningrad, 1984); his explanation of the sermon genre in Russia seems to be rather
artificial and does not correspond with the very deep tradition reflected by Metropolitan
Photius' sermons in the fifteenth century and by the Kyi van literature recently described
by Simon Franklin.
A careful reader would mention some unjustified points made by the author. Nil Sorskii's writings did not sink into obscurity (see p. 16). Sil'vestr was not an archpriest, as the
author claims on page 45, but remained a priest as the author refers to him on page 26.
The life of Joseph was compiled by Lev Filolog not after the middle of the sixteenth
century (p. 27), but in the late 1540s. The idea of the decline of religious literature could
not be supported by any historical material (see p. 50), and if Josephism in the second half
of the sixteenth century simply meant hostility to anti-Trinitarianism (p. 50), how is it that
Josephism alone can be separated from the whole of Christian teaching, which is essentially hostile to anti-Trinitarianism? The Voskresenskaia and the Ioasaf chronicles were
compiled not in the fifteenth and the early sixteenth century (p. 79), but in the late 1520s,
etc.
Paul Bushkovitch has made an attempt to give us a more comprehensive picture of
pre-Petrine Russian spiritual life than previously available. Even his blueprint or intention should be rewarded, and the discussion he reopened would be the best tribute for
him.
Andrei Pliguzov
Institute of History, Russian Academy of Sciences
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243
TRADITIONS IN NEW FREEDOM: CHRISTIANITY AND HIGHER
EDUCATIONINRUSSIAANDUKRAINETODAY.ByyonafAawSi/tton.
Nottingham: Bramcote Press, 1996.128 pp. + plates, index, bibliography.
ISBN 0-9517853-7-0. $24.95.
This is a frustrating book to review. Frustrating because the gap between the significance
of the subject—how Christianity is being taught and received in Russia and Ukraine in
the 1990s—and its description herein, is enormous. And more than that: revealing of the
sorry plight of so much academic writing today. In two words: breathtakingly dull.
To the author's credit, he asks a big question, and one that many of us who have
lived and worked in Russia, Ukraine, or both (and I have done both) have asked: what
issues and problems face the teachers of religion, more precisely of Christianity, in the
two largest formerly Soviet Slavic republics? That question cannot be overstated—it is a
truism that the ideological void created by the withering away of Marxism-Leninism
(not to mention the implosion of the Soviet Union in 1991) has left tens of millions of
faith-starved individuals. In the aftermath of the collapse of communism across the
former USSR, one finds many people, including many experts, predicting a religious
renaissance. And certainly a casual stroll through the cathedrals and churches of Kyiv,
where I have lived for the past two years, confirms that prediction. Services are well
attended. Families, including a good number of young adults and teenagers, stand in
prayerful attention. To this extent, then, Dr. Sutton has framed a truly meaningful
question.
Credit goes also to the research design of the book. Sutton examines a wide variety
of pedagogical approaches both directly and indirectly, from curricula and teaching
practices, at independent, state, and denominational educational establishments. One of
the fascinating findings occurs in the first chapter, where Sutton analyzes three independent colleges: the Alexander Men' Open Orthodox University in Moscow, the Open
Christianity Society's Religious-Philosophical Institute, and the School of Religious
and Philosophy, both in St. Petersburg. He discovers a capacity for instructional innovation and a determination to develop student abilities for critical reflection on the of
religion in society that sets these rules off from other institutions, in turn dominated by
the rote-learning procedures of the Soviet era.
Notable too is the conclusion of the second chapter, where Sutton focuses on staterun schools. Here he notes that, in contrast to the west where religious studies are treated
as a humanities subject, religion often viewed primarily as a social science, as a
phenomenon that can be explained in historical context. This perspective flows from the
fact that the abolition of 'scientific atheism' from the curriculum did not lead to the
dismissal of sociologists and political scientists who, among others, now treat Christianity as a "passing fashion" (p. 40), to quote one Ukrainian professor.
Finally, on the plus side is a tantalizing chapter on theological education in two nonOrthodox communities in Ukraine: the Ukrainian Greek Catholics, concentrated in
Western Ukraine, and the Evangelical Baptists. Both present riveting case studies of the
growing pluralism of religious culture and of the emerging resistance to that pluralism
by traditionalists within the Orthodox Church.
All this is to the good and, say, if you are doing your dissertation on the subject of
religion in Ukraine or Russia, the book has merit. But for virtually everyone else this
study exhibits—no exemplifies—a persistent and worrisome tendency in academic
writing: it is overresearched and underwritten. Well credentialed (a Research Fellow in
the Department of Theology and Religious Studies at the University of Leeds) and
fluent in Russian, Dr. Sutton did a lot of fieldwork in 1993 and 1994, visiting (by his
count) almost fifty institutions in eighteen cities. He interviewed a number of prominent
244
teachers, administrators, and (even) students. He collected a ton of syllabi and course
descriptions. In a word, he drew upon a vast array of sources which should produce a
telling narrative of potential interest to a wide audience in the West.
But no. The actual recounting breaks down along two major fault lines. First of all, it
is sophomoric in the literal sense of the word. How often have I told my first and second
year students not to begin their papers with a phrase—"In this paper I will write about
(fill in the blank)." Yet this is exactly what happens here, and in numbing repetition. By
the middle of the book the reader's eyes glaze over and sleep descends.
This, unfortunately, is the least of it. For what we have is a book bristling with
potentially lively characters, none of whom come to life. What is mystifying, and
damning all at once, is the author's statement near the outset that, " all too frequently we
lose sight of the people who make education what it is (p. 10)." Bravo! Yes, and yes
again. And why not bring these people before the reader? Why not make them the focus
of the study, while relegating page after page of course description to the appendices?
Why not elaborate on the reactions of the students to what they are learning, or failing to
learn at this critical juncture of history? Sutton interviewed students in a number of
Ukrainian and Russian cities yet, except for an occasional paragraph, they remain
invisible or, at best, a blur on the page. Yet this generation of students is special and,
more than that, pivotal in the play of contending forces ripping across the new lands as
the century nears its end. Here they are—and they remain lifeless.
To conclude: Sutton has addressed two interrelated issues facing Ukraine and Russia
in the 1990s. The first one is that of faith and whether the new faith will be a militant
version of nationalism if Ukraine (especially) and Russia seek to impose the search for
cultural identity on the teaching of religion. The second is the nature of teaching, and
not simply of religion, but all subjects. To say it one more time—will professors
enhance the students' capacity for learning or kill it, as was often the case before 1991?
And if the latter, what are the consequences for the new society, now that Ukraine and
Russia have joined (however tenuously) the global community, where students compete
with their western counterparts for entry-level positions with Western companies, businesses, and schools.
These are major questions which cry out for imaginative and sensitive treatment and
prose. The need is still there.
William Gleason
Lincoln, Nebraska
UKRAÏNS'KI TA BILORUS'KI NOTOLINIINI IRMOLOÏ 16-18
STOUT, KATALOH I KODIKOLOHYCHNO-PALEOHRAFYCHNE
DOSLIDZHENNIA. By Iurii Iasynovs'kyi. Seriia: Istoriia ukramsTcoï
muzyky, vyp. 2: Dzherela. Instytut Ukraïnoznavstva im. Krip'iakevycha
NAN L'viv, Vydavnytstvo Vasyliian "Misioner," 1996, 624 pp. + 47
plates, indices, bibliography, ISBN 5-7702-1289-6.
Even if Iurii Iasynovs'kyi had not written more than twenty scholarly studies in the past
two decades (which have made his name quite well known among musicologists and
students of the history of Ukrainian church music), the publication of this catalog of
musical manuscripts of the irmoloi type dating from the end of the 16th through the 18th
centuries has secured a place of honor for its author in contemporary musicological
studies. This publication is an extremely significant and valuable reference tool listing
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some 1,111 musical manuscripts. This work both demonstrates the proliferation of this
type of musical manuscript in a specific period, and also shows how inadequately it has
been studied thus far.
Christianity reached Kyivan Rus' by the end of the 10th century and the chanting that
accompanied the services of the Christia ritual was at first transmitted by a complex
process of adaptation of Byzantine musical notation that was superimposed on the
Church-Slavonic text. The latter represented a direct translation of the Greek original. In
the course of centuries the texts remained fairly stable and gradually were enriched by
newly created text. The musical aspects of the hymns may have been originally transmitted by an oral tradition with increasing reliance over time on melodies written by a
system of signs that eventually came to be known as znamia as well as kriuki. These
differed very much from the Western European musical notation on a five-line staff.
The latter "modern" system reached Ukraine most likely through contacts with Poland
and became widespread from ca. 1600 onward. Sources containing this "Westernizing"
notation are referred to as notolineini MSS. The acceptance and adaptation of that
notation in Ukraine precedes a similar process in Russia by nearly a century.
As for the contents of such sources, depending on the type of chants, there were
several types of MSS among which one type known in Byzantium as "Heirmologion"
was known as a collection of a specific type of chants for the Matins, known as
"Heirmoi." Other chants with different types of texts were to be found in various different types of MSS. At some, as yet undetermined, impulse within Ukrainian lands
evolved a type of Church-music book that literally served as an anthology incorporating
not only the Heirmoi but other types of chants and was not restricted only to Matins but
was useful for all other services in the cycle of the daily ritual. This new type acquired
the designation of irmoloi and was both copied as well as printed in Ukraine. The
highpoint of its copying and production seems to fall between the mid-17th to mid18th c , though some were hand-copied as late as mid-19th century.
One of the earliest exemplars, the so-called Suprasal'skii irmoloi has been studied in
considerable detail within the last few decades, but except for Iasynovslcyi few scholars
realized that there were more than one thousand copies of this type of manuscript in
existence. The catalog is preceded by a comprehensive bibliography (pp. 17-32) and a
thorough study of the development of the Irmoloi (pp. 33-93), and a list of libraries
containing these sources. The exhaustive catalog (pp. 97-492) arranged chronologically, brings information about every copy with a listing of the library in which it is
located and its call-number. After a description of its contents follows a bibliography
referring to each individual source, provided that scholars had known of each of these
copies. Needless to say a considerable number appears for the first time in this catalog.
Another extremely useful feature is a set of meticulously prepared indices (pp. 492575) giving the names of copyists; of places where the MS was written (if known);
chronological list of recorded dates; index of MSS with miniatures (separate index of
MSS with miniatures of musical subjects); list of names of painters; MSS with engravings and a list of engravers; a huge list of names of persons mentioned in inscriptions
(pp. 502-521); list of collectors, owners, catalogers; of geographic names; index of
chant-incipits (if analyzed in the descriptive part); of types of chants and of services; a
very useful list of attributions of the presumed origin of chants. This is followed by an
English summary (4 pp.) and the volume is rounded out with 47 photostatic illustrations
of the musical notation from representative copies.
All scholars studying the Eastern European—and specifically Ukrainian—traditions
of Christian chants and of the musical notation used by Eastern Slavs to write down
these chants, will use Iasynovslcyi's catalog as a standard reference volume. It will also
246
serve as a model of codicological scholarship and will be admired for its thorough and
meticulous approach to research. The author is to be commended and congratulated on
this excellent piece of work, which represents the result of more than twenty years of
work and research.
Milos Velimirovic
Emeritus, University of Virginia
UKRAINIAN MUSICAL ELEMENTS IN CLASSICAL MUSIC. By
Yakov Soroker. Translated by Olya Samilenko. Edited by Andrij
Homjatkevyö. Edmonton: Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies Press,
1995. 155 pp. ISBN (cloth) 1-895571-06-5. $24.95.
The theme of Ukraine and world culture is one of the most interesting but insufficiently
studied areas of intellectual history. In spite of the fact that a number of basic works
devoted to the study of the influence of world culture on Ukraine already exists, the no
less important aspect of the influence of Ukrainian culture on Western Europe and Russia
still remains in the shadow. It is namely to this topical and multifaceted theme that this
book is devoted, written by Yakov Soroker, a distinguished musicologist, violinist, pedagogue, and pupil of David Oistrakh—he was the author of more than 100 works on
different problems concerning musical history, theory and pedagogy. Encompassing a
broad spectrum of historical, cultural, and musicological questions, this book should be
of great interest to composers, musicologists, philosophers, scholars of Slavic studies,
and for everyone who is interested in Ukrainian history and culture.
The structure of this book is distinguished by polyphonic profundity. On the one
hand, the book makes a serious contribution to musical theory, history, and
ethnomusicology. The author analyzes in great detail the melodic structure of a folk
song, investigates the regional specific features of different layers of Ukrainian folklore,
sharply delineates the essential and external attributes of the folk music language, and
discloses the multidimensional system of interaction between Ukrainian folklore and
those of Russia, Hungary, Croatia, Poland, the Czech Republic, and Turkey. With
absolute precision Soroker distinguishes the Ukrainian national element in the works of
a broad circle of composers, near or remote from Ukraine in terms of the historical and
geographic perspective, and also analyzes the aesthetic and psychological motives
stimulating a given Russian or Western European composer to turn to a Ukrainian
theme.
On the other hand, Soroker's book represents a distinctive history of Ukraine and
Ukrainian music, refracted through the prism of the consciousness of the greatest
composers from different national cultures. Soroker introduces interesting, sometimes
unique facts testifying to the close intertwining between Ukrainian and world cultural
history. The reader learns about the friendship between Ludwig van Beethoven and the
son of the last Ukrainian hetman, the Russian ambassador to Austro-Hungary Andrii
Rozumovsky. Very few contemporary musicologists know that Liszt's "Dante Symphony" was begun in 1847 on the picturesque estate of Voronyntsi, located southwest of
Kyiv. From Soroker's book the reader can derive information about the frequent trips of
the adolescent Chopin to Ukraine, where the future prominent composer was permeated
with the atmosphere of Ukrainian folk song and dance and the colorful sonority of the
bandura's timbre, which was reflected subsequently in his preludes, nocturnes, and
etudes. It would be relevant for any contemporary Ukrainian composer writing com-
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247
mentaries in his scores in the traditional Italian language to know that as early as 1920
one of the most original composers of that time used commentaries in Ukrainian in his
works. Ironically, it turns out that this composer was foreign, the Austrian Felix Petyrek.
The author traces the profound influence of Ukrainian folklore on Russian music
through the examples of the works of Tchaikovsky (Second Symphony, First Piano
Concerto, "Dumka"), Mussorgsky ("Sorochintsy Fair"), and Rimsky-Korsakov ("May
Night," "Christmas Eve," "Little Russian Fantasy"). Examining the influence of Ukrainian folklore on the music of Glinka, Soroker discloses the Ukrainian roots in the dance
theme from the famous "Kamarinskaya," and also advances a bold but well-grounded
hypothesis about the Ukrainian element in the "March of Chernomor" from the opera
Ruslan and Ludrnila. Sometimes Soroker dwells on profound psychoanalytic questions,
examining the correlation between the conscious and subconscious components of the
creative process. Particularly illustrative in this respect is the essay on Rachmaninov.
The strength of the influence of Ukrainian nature, culture, and mentality on leading
composers is eloquently disclosed in the statement of Mussorgsky about Shevchenko
cited by Soroker ("He activated my mental faculties") and in the words of Glinka, who
called Ukraine "a blessed land," and characterized the Ukrainian people as "blessed
with a fine ear for music."
The characterization of the style of each of the Russian and West European composers involved with the Ukrainian theme is provided in a concrete socio-historical context.
With great authenticity, Soroker portrays the conditions of the life of a Soviet composer
under a Communist dictatorship (the essay on Prokofiev, pp. 119-22). Nevertheless,
one can argue with Soroker in evaluating the artistic merits of several works by
Prokofiev from the Soviet period that, in the words of the author, are "far removed from
true art" (p. 119). Apparently, in the dramatic duel between the artist and the authorities,
the winner turned out to be the artist. Working on the Cantata On the 20th Anniversary
of October to the words of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin, in my view Prokofiev was
able to overcome the sterile dogmatism and stylistic impotence of the original sources
and to crête a genuinely great composition, solemn and monumental, spiritually related
to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" or the choral finales of Mahler's symphonies. Of course,
this comment in no way should be perceived as a criticism of Soroker's conception, but
only as one of the possible aesthetic alternatives.
Soroker could also have developed such a fertile topic as "Stravinsky and Ukraine."
Despite Stravinsky belonging to three different national cultures—Russian, French and
American—in the biography and works of the composer a vivid Ukrainian imprint is
clearly perceptible as well. Stravinsky's mother, Anna Kholodkovskaya, was by origin a
daughter of a Volhynian landowner. In his childhood Stravinsky used to spend every
summer on the estate Pechiski, not far from the Ukrainian city of Proskuriv (now
KhmernytsTcyi). The composer's father-in-law, Gavril Nosenko, owned the estate
Ustyluh in Volhynia. It was namely here in Ustyluh that Stravinsky worked on his ballet
The Rite of Spring, the opera The Nightingale, and the symphonic "fireworks"—compositions which were destined to become world famous. The elements of Ukrainian
folklore, consciously or subconsciously, are reflected by Stravinsky in the score of The
Rite of Spring. Stravinsky himself noted that one of the strongest impressons of his life
was the liturgical singing which he heard in the churches of Kyiv and Poltava. Finally
the basis of the finale of Stravinsky's Symphony of Psalms was the theme of the ancient
Kyivan spiritual hymn "Svete Tikhii."
The absence of Stravinsky in Soroker's book (as well as of Shostakovich, who was
also connected with Ukraine by close biographical and artistic threads) is in no way a
reproach against the author. It is impossible to encompass in the framework of a single
248
book all the facets of such an inexhaustible theme as that of Ukraine and world culture.
Undoubtedly Soroker's book will find a broad and grateful audience and will contribute
significantly to the cultural life of the present.
Yakov Gubanov
Cambridge, Massachusetts
POETYCHNA KHVYLIA UKRAÏNSKOHO KINO. By Larysa
Briukhovets'ka. Kyiv: Mystetstvo, 1989. 173 pp.
BILYI PTAKH Ζ CHORNOIU OZNAKOIU. IVAN MYKOLAICHUK:
SPOHADY, INTERVIÚ, STSENARIÏ. Edited by Mania Mykolaichuk.
Kyiv: Mystetstvo, 1991. 399 pp.
The term Ukrainian Poetic Cinema is often used to describe a unique wave of Ukrainian
films produced during the 1960s and 1970s. The roots of this movement, however, go
back to the 1920s and to the films of Alexander Dovzhenko, the best known of Ukrainian
film directors. Firmly based in national culture and folklore, Ukrainian Poetic Cinema
along with literature was a strong manisfestation of the Ukrainian cultural revival of the
1960s. These two books published by Mystetstvo are the pioneering attempts to deal in
book form with the phenomenon of Ukrainian Poetic Cinema. Poetychna khvylia
ukraïns'koho kino (The Poetic Wave of Ukrainian Cinema) is a monograph describing
the movement, its main participants and events as well as problems it has encountered
from its inception. Bilyiptakh ζ chornoiu oznakoiu is a collection of documents dealing
exclusively with a major figure of Ukrainian Poetic Cinema—actor, screenwriter, and
director Ivan Mykolaichuk.
Poetychna khvylia by Larysa Briukhovets'ka was one of the first books on Ukrainian
cinema resulting from glasnost and the subsequent liberalization of Soviet intellectual
life. Its author, the art editor of the journal Kyiv, has previously published many articles
on Ukrainian cinema as well as a monograph dealing with Ukrainian literary adaptations
for the screen, Literatura i kino: problemy vzaiemyn (Literature and Cinema: Issues of
Reciprocity; Kyiv: Radianslcyi pys'mennyk, 1988). Poetychna khvylia is an attempt to
account for the major events and people associated with the movement. The book
progresses from a general description of its subject within the political, sociological, and
artistic milieu of the time towards specific films constituting the movement. The strength
of the book comes from its historical chronology of events. Detailed descriptions of
important films and outlines of directors' careers forma narrative chronology beginning
with the widely-known Tini zabutykh predkiv (Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, 1964)
by Serhii Paradzhanov and concluding with Ivan Mykolaichuk's Vavylon XX (Babylon
XX, 1979). Briukhovets'ka devotes substantial space to Yurii Illienko, the most prolific
director of the movement, and discusses in some detail his most important films:
Krynytsia dlia sprahlykh (Well for the Thirsty, 1966; released 1987), Vechir naperedodni
Ivana Kupała (On the Eve of Ivan Kupało, 1969), and Bilyiptakh z chornoiu oznakoiu
(White Bird with a Black Spot, 1971). Other directors represented in this work include
Leonid Osyka and Mykola Mashchenko.
Compared with the main body of this work dealing with the historical aspect, the first
theoretical part is less satisfactory. It suffers from an apologetic tone adopted by the
author in order to defend the Ukrainian Poetic Cinema as a valid artistic entity. Numerous
examples of censorship and bans imposed on Ukrainian films refer to anonymous bureaucratic powers behind all decisions. The reader's impression of this introduction is
that the Ukrainian Poetic Cinema is an important artistic movement only because of its
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martyrdom within the Soviet system and not because of its intrinsic qualities. The attempt
to define what constitutes poetic cinema is equally disappointing. Poetychna khvylia does
not arrive at a satisfying definition. Terms such as lyricism and symbolism, notions such
as tendency to philosophize, use of the subjective, moving camera (pp. 39-47), are all too
vague as theoretical concepts. Moreover, these concepts can be successfully employed to
describe other genres and movements in cinematic history without being specific enough
to depict their distinctiveness for the Ukrainian Poetic Cinema movement.
Unlike the usual Soviet Ukrainian book, Poetychna khvylia provides references to its
sources in the text. However, there are shortcomings in other parts of the scholarly
apparatus: a bibliography, filmography, and a comprehensive index would complement
this book and make it very useful for the student of Ukrainian cinema. The book is
suitably illustrated with portraits of film directors and stills from the most important
films. Despite its theoretical weaknesses, it is an important contribution to the history of
cinema in Ukraine. It is the first work on the subject that succeeds in presenting a broad
overview of Ukrainian Poetic Cinema.
Bilyi ptakh is a tribute to Ivan Mykolaichuk (1941-1987). Edited by his wife, the book
consists of selected writings by him, memoirs about him, reviews of his firms, and an
article by Serbii Trymbach, a noted film critic. The book's title is borrowed from the
screenplay of the same title, which occupies the main part of the book. Mykolaichuk
wrote Bilyi ptakh with Yurii Illienko, who directed it. The film became one of the best
known works of the Ukrainian Poetic Cinema after it received the Grand Prix at the
Moscow International Film Festival in 1971. Shortly before his untimely death, the
author intended to direct another complete screenplay included in this book, Nebylytsi
pro Ivana (Fables about Ivan). According to his filmography (396-98), Mykolaichuk
wrote or co-wrote nine firm scripts. All of them were filmed by various directors, including two by Mykolaichuk himself. Vavylon XX (1979) and Taka piznia taka tepla osin'
(Autumn is so late and warm, 1981) were works of vastly different quality. While the
former was praised by critics and awarded several prizes at film festivals, the latter was
generally concidered a failure.
Directing and writing were only the secondary activities of Ivan Mykolaichuk. He is
best known and will be remembered mainly as an actor. The images of Mykholaichuk in
numerous roles are synonymous with the development of the poetic cinema. Photographs
of him as Ivan in Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors became the icons of the movement. In
fact, he appeared in some thirty-four films, most of which are considered today as the
canon of the Ukrainian Poetic Cinema. The memoirs included in Bilyi ptakh attempt to
recreate a portrait of Mykolaichuk as a person. Numerous stories and anecdotes come
from his friends, fellow actors, and directors. Some these have been previously published
in newspapers and others were written especially for this volume. This book, as its editor
explains, includes only lesser known materials associated with Ivan Mykolaichuk and is
far from complete. It manages, however, to collect different kinds of documents that
together present a sketch of one of the most important individuals behind the Ukrainian
Poetic Cinema.
Both books under discussion are aimed at a popular readership—at the expense of
scholarly methodology and presentation. Neither attempts to be a definitive work on the
subject. They both, however, successfully bring attention to the Ukrainian Poetic Cinema
as a highly original national phenomenon, which had been denied recognition within the
Soviet state. These are works restoring the Ukrainian Poetic Cinema to its rightful place
within the history of cinema in Ukraine. This study of this movement, though, remains
yet to be completed.
Bohdan Y. Nebesio
University of Alberta
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CONTEMPORARY EAST EUROPEAN POETRY: AN ANTHOLOGY.
Ed. by Emery George. New York and London: Oxford University Press,
1993. liii, 490 pp. ISBN (cloth) 019508635X $30; ISBN (paper)
0195086368 $14.85.
I would be remiss if in a review for ajournai of Ukrainian studies I ignored the absence
of Ukrainian poetry from this volume of East European poetry in translation. In
disregarding such a rich poetry in the modern period, the compiler of the volume
promotes cross-culturally what Tsarist Russia and the USSR had attempted to do
politically for over three centuries—eradicate Ukrainian cultural and linguistic identity.
By this neglect, the editor of this volume manages to eliminate Ukrainian poetry from the
East European cultural landscape. He does not do so as a result of some oversight. We
know this from his commentary in the introduction to the volume, reprinted from the
original 1983 edition and dated 1981 : "Ukrainians unhappy at having been left out while
we included Baltic writers, will do well to reflect on history as well as geography" (p.
xiv). What, if anything, does this statement mean? I certainly do not understand, and the
compiler fails to illuminate his enigmatic phraseology any further except by implying
that Ukraine does not belong to East Europe proper. The recent volume Shifting Borders:
East European Poetries of the Eighties (Fairleigh Dickinson Press, 1993; reviewed in
Harvard Ukrainian Studies 17(3/4) 1993: 403-405) does include Ukraine where it
belongs, in "East Europe proper," and devotes some 40 pages to Ukrainian poetry.
It is sad to see such an eminent press as Oxford permitting such a slight. The
compiler's motive for disregarding Ukrainian poetry in this updated edition cannot be
purely geographically based, as he states, since he includes several Yiddish writers from
L'viv and Ukrainian Galicia. I thought this was not "East Europe proper." Traditionally,
Ukrainian poets have always had close ties with the contiguous Polish and Baltic, as well
as the Western European literatures. Although the compiler suggests apolitical aesthetic
principles as his only criterion for the inclusion of poets in the volume, he would have to
have some cultural bias against Ukraine to exclude a poetry that produced such poetic
giants as Pavlo Tychyna, Mykola Bazhan, Bohdan Antonych, and Ievhen Pluzhnyk in the
early part of the century. This is not to speak of the scores of other talented poets who
emerged during the so called "executed renaissance" of the 1920s and who largely perished during the Stalinist terror, as well as the poets of the sixties like Ivan Drach, Lina
Kostenko, Dior Kalynets", and Vasyl' Stus (whom critics refer to as the Ukrainian Rilke
and who died in a Soviet forced labor camp in 1985). And Ukrainian poetry continues to
flourish in the 1990s with such notable new writers as Vasyl' Herasymiuk, Natalka
Bilotserkivets', Viktor Neborak, Oksana Zabuzhko, and a host of others. Although the
compiler claims to put poetry beyond politics in this volume, by his seemingly intentional
oversight he ultimately fails to do so. Regrettably, through this exclusion, the very landscape of East European poetry is deprived of one of its major and most unique contributors. Thus, for the second time, the compiler achieves his goal of making Ukrainians
unhappy at being left out of the volume.
Now that I have offered my objection to the essential omission in the volume, I can
turn to a discussion of the material included. The book is an expanded edition of a volume
that first appeared under the same title with Ardis Publishers in 1983. The new edition is
divided into two parts—456 pages of poetry in translation organized according to the
native language of the poets and a thirty-three page update section of more recent poetic
voices, also organized in the same way. Each separate language entry has a useful two to
three page general introductory essay on each national poetry and brief one-paragraph
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251
biographical notes on the poets, which this reader would prefer to see somewhat expanded. A few of the introductory materials are insufficiently updated from the 1983
edition. For example, the 1981 Maguire/Krynski Princeton Press edition of Wislawa
Szymborska's poetry is still called "recent," which it was in 1983, but not in 1993. Some
of the anthologized poets have major reputations in the West: Czesław Miłosz (Polish),
Jaroslav Seifert (Czech), and Nina Cassian (Romanian), for example. Most of the other
poets certainly deserve to be part of the anthology, and many of the lesser known names
are worthy of a larger English-language audience, which this volume should provide by
at least whetting the appetite of readers who do not read the poems in the original. In
every anthology some authors must be overlooked due to space considerations. This
volume, for example, certainly could have also included a number of talents like the
Romanian poet Liliana Ursu, the Bulgarian Georgi Belev, and the Slovenian Ales
Debeljak, all of whose poetry is available in English in literary journals or in books. The
translations in the volume, for the most part, are eminently readable in a natural English
idiom in free verse. The most successful of them work as poems in English. Some of this
reviewer's personal favorites include Marie Under's "Alone with the Sea" (p. 5-6), Ivar
Ivask's "I am the Shepherd" (p. 26), Tomas Venclova's exquisitely crafted "Villanelle"
(p. 91), Wislawa Szymborska's "Tortures" (p. 128), Miroslav Holub's "The Garden of
Old People" (p. 222-3), Agnes Nemes Nagy's "Pinetree" (p. 259), Lucían Blaga's
"Heraclitus by the Lake" (p. 303—4), Blaga Dimitrova's "Introduction to the Beyond" (p.
402-3), and Jacob Glatstein's "Ruth" (p. 433). Readers certainly will find other poems
equally satisfying and should not restrict themselves to this eclectic list. On a technical
note, the miniscule type may force some readers to take out their reading or magnifying
glasses. Obviously the compiler ought to cram as much poetry as possible into a limited
space, so the trade-off is a less aesthetically pleasing look to the volume.
All in all, except for my above-mentioned caveat, this is an extremely valuable
anthology of East European poetry—a poetry which, through its more spiritual orientation, has much to offer to a more materially-oriented West.
Michael M. Naydan
The Pennsylvania State University
THE LITERATURE OF GEORGIA: A HISTORY. By Donald Rayfield.
Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. 1994, 880 pp., ISBN 0-19815191-8.
Professor Rayfield's work is a much needed addition to the very slim body of Western
studies on Georgian literature. This well informed and detailed survey spans the fifteencentury-long history of Georgia's rich literary heritage, from the earliest recorded texts
of the fifth century CE. (mostly translations of the Gospels and Psalms from Greek,
Syriac, and Hebrew) to the latest output of contemporary writers and poets. The author's
brief but lucid and insightful analysis of both prose and poetry is often illustrated with
his translations of short passages and even entire poems. Most of these translations are
accurate and effectively convey the artistic power and magic of the originals. Rayfield's
own narrative style is lively and enjoyable, albeit at times too glib and flowery.
Part 1, distinguished by its more controlled academic manner, is probably the most
solidly and competently written of the book's seven sections. It deals predominantly
with the vast body of religious literature (hymnogaphy, homilies, hagiogaphy) as well as
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the Chronicles, providing a general background of the cultural and historical events that
gradually lead to the emergence of the Golden Age during the reign of Queen Tamar
(1184-1213).
Part 2, which brings the survey to the late eighteenth century, contains an equally
competent analysis of a large number of late medieval texts, both religious and secular.
The best chapter of this section is devoted to David Guramishvili (1705-C.1801), a
brilliant poet who enriched Georgian literature with a new poetic mode. Up to the mideighteenth century, Georgian poetry remained under the sway of The Knight in the
Panther Skin, Shota Rustaveli's grandiose twelfth-century epic. Gurtamishvili was the
first who broke away from the imposing influence of his great predecessor and introduced new themes, imagery and versification.
As the narrative approaches the modern era, however, the reader encounters more and
more conjectural pronouncements, logical non-sequiturs, and flamboyant remarks that
are neither appropriate nor elucidating. Thus, Rayfield too easily dismisses as
pasticheurs the creators of the late sixteenth-century sequels to The Knight in the Panther
Skin. Their authors' bleak pessimism and distrust of lofty and everlasting ideals offer a
glimpse of motives that could have nurtured Georgian Baroque had more benevolent
political and economic conditions existed in the war-ravaged and devastated country.
Another particularly inappropriate judgment is passed upon King Teimuraz (15841648) of East Georgia, about whom Rayfield writes the following: "His ability to
endure the deaths of wives and ehilden and to continue evading, prevaricating, and
intriguing also anticipates Stalin (who, we should remember, was also a poet)" (p. 108).
Neither poetic talent nor even paranoid personality constitute sufficient gounds for
qualifying as Stalin's spiritual predecessor a man who, as a result of the intrigues of his
internal and external rivals, spent more time in exile than on his throne, whose mother
and children were brutally tortured and killed by the Shah of Iran, then Georgia's
archenemy, and who himself died in a humiliating exile. Stalin's personal life was full
of grief and brutality in a somewhat different manner.
Part 3 surveys the cultural and intellectual atmosphere in Georgia under Russian rule
in the nineteenth century and the birth of modern prose. In order to make his subject
more approachable for the English speaking reader, Professor Rayfield makes frequent
allusions to comparable phenomena in Western literature. Most of these references are,
indeed, illuminating for those who have no knowledge of Georgian. However, the
author often goes overboard in his enthusiasm, offering superfluous and at times rather
misleading comparisons. Among the victims of his exuberance is Alexandre Quazbegi
(1848-1893), the author of immensely popular melodramas. In the space of less than a
page he is compared to Aeschylus, Dostoevsky, and Maupassant. The comparison to the
first two is founded on the "parricide and irresistible erotic attraction" (p. 198) present in
Quazbegi's works. The reason for comparison with Maupassant seems to be that both
writers died "in the same year and [of] the same disease" (p. 199). At the end of the
chapter, Quazbegi's overall literary output is qualified as pulp fiction, which makes the
parallels even less enlightening.
In another instance, Rayfield speaks about Giorgi Eristavi's play The Lawsuit, or
Semicolon, performed in Tbilisi in 1850, asserting that it must have reminded the
audience of Kapnist's Chicanery (p. 170). The Georgian audience attending the premiere of the first Georgian comedy in a newly established national theater could not
possibly have been reminded of Kapnist's neoclassical comedy, which was never
performed in Georgia and was not then particularly popular even in Russia.
In his analysis of Ilia Chavchavdze and Akaki Tsereteii, two towering figures of
nineteenth-century cultural life, Rayfield gives due credit to the literary, social, and
political contributions of the former, but fails to appreciate adequately the poetic genius
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of the latter. There is less discussion of Tsereteli's poems, for which he was almost
idolized during his lifetime, than of his prose, which is seldom included in the list of his
greatest works. There is no mention of Tsereteli's "The Holy Mountain Lost in
Thoughts" ("Mtatsminda chapikrebula"), one of his best and most popular poems,
which deeply affected many nineteenth and twentieth century Georgian poets and
writers. Moreover, Tsereteli's "Suloko" ("The Beloved"), a lyrical poem well-known
beyond Georgia's borders, is introduced as a poem which "plays the same role of
unofficial anthem as 'Waltzing Matilda' for Australia" (p. 180). "Suloko" is a prayer
and lament for the deceased beloved (if we understand the text literally) or for the lost
glory of Georgia (if we interpret it metaphorically). The defiant optimism of the Australian song evokes entirely different associations. Lastly, discussing Tsereteli's memoirs,
Rayfield glibly affirms that in his The Story of My Life, the poet "moves from
Dickensian honors to inspiration" (p. 184). There is much more wit and lighthearted
humor than honor, Dickensian or otherwise, in this charming childhood recollection.
Part 4 is one of the finest in the book. Its first chapter deals with the works of Vazha
Pshavela (1861-1915), Georgia's greatest poet since Shota Rustaveli. The author aptly
identifies the central themes and binding images of the poet's major narrative poems
which are reminiscent of classic Greek tragedies. There are impressive instances of
Professor Rayfield's grasp of Vazha Pshavela's pantheistic world view as well. Unfortunately, in this chapter Professor Rayfield's usually accurate translations are less
precise, often shifting the emphasis of the original. Thus, he describes the poet's
"unrequited love for nature, the rocks 'as lovely to behold as a woman's breasts'"
(p. 214). The simile, quoted from one of Vazha Pshavela's narrative poems, refers to a
distant view of a village clinging to the high mountains of the Caucasus, "like an eagle's
nest (and it) is as lovely to behold as a woman's chest." The palpable sensuality of the
original is far more subtle than the overtly sexual image in the English rendition.
The final part of the book charts the development of modern Georgian literature
from the turn of the century to the present. Here the author's witty, engaging, and
concise evaluations of a large number of prose and poetic works are tainted with far
more numerous mistakes, omissions, and inaccuracies than in previous sections. He
seems not to appreciate works written by women; for instance, he rather condescendingly dismisses Daria Akhvlediani (1873-after 1912) "as an anomaly, a female poet in a
predominantly male culture, were it not for two poems" (p. 258). While dedicating at
least a paragaph even to very minor male writers, poets, and even some translators,
Rayfield either forgets or chooses to ignore quite a few talented women writers, editors,
and translators of the time. At least three women poets of the period, Lida
Mgaloblishvili (1878-1968), Marika Baratashvili (1908- ?), and Atato Beburishvili
(1835-1919) have left a small but lasting contribution to Georgian literature. So popular
were their poems that they were often believed to be folk songs, particularly
Mgaloblishvili's "A Persian Prisoner" ("Sparseli tqve"). Mariam Tqemladze (18901978), better known by her nom-de-plume Maridjan, was also a poet of considerable
merit and the addressee of Loseb Grishashvili (1889-1965), whose sonorous and colorful poems are deservedly praised by Rayfield. Two other women, Sophia Amiradjibi
and Elizaveta Orbeliani, both prolific translators, also merit at least a paragaph. The
former translated into Russian many works of the nineteenth century poets, the latter
rendered into French Rustaveli's epic. Among more recent female writers, Naira
Gelashvili's stories, her novel Mother's Room (Dedis otakhi), and particularly her
novella Ambers, Umbers and Arabs (Ambrni, umbrini da arabni) amply deserve mention. In addition to Lia Sturua, undoubtedly the most talented of the contemporary
female poets (p. 331), a few more traditional but noteworthy names, such as Iza
Ordjonikidze or Manana Chitishvili, could also have been added to the list.
254
At times Rayfield takes too much freedom in interpreting poems and summarizing
prose works. In the brief space allotted, it is impossible to enumerate all such errors. The
most glaring inaccuracy is in the summary of Stealing of the Moon, a brilliant novel by
Konstantine Gamsakhurdia (1890-1975), the father of Georgia's late President Zviad
Gamsakhurdia. One of the novel's major characters, Arzaqan is described as "a selfwilled Oedipus who rapes his mother and kills his father" (p. 282). Arzaqan is undoubtedly an Oedipal character, but the rape takes place not in reality but, it is implied, in the
father's nightmare. The novel's other protagonist, Prince Tarash Emkhvari, Arzaqan's
childhood friend and rival, is characterized as one who "loses everything (property, love
and life) to his wet-nurse's son, the Stalinist peasant Arzaqan Zvambaia." In fact, most
of Tarash's wealth is spent on his European education and travels abroad. As for Tamar,
his aristocratic love, her death results from complications of pregnancy. Tarash, the
father of her unborn child, loses his life not to Arzaqan, but to the foamy river Enguri,
swelled by spring torrents, which he recklessly attempts to cross to get to Tamar's
deathbed. Here the metaphor of the novel's title is realized. Tarash, the symbolic pagan
Moon-God is abducted, not stolen, by the river. The raging elements reclaim what once
belonged to them. Rayfield's translation of the novel's title as Stealing of the Moon
somewhat distorts the symbolism associated with the death of the hero.
Given the encyclopedic scope of Rayfield's book it is surprising that a number of
important names are missing. One of them is Shota Nishnianidze (b. 1929), a prominent
poet of the same generation as Machavariani, Lebanidze, and Chanturia (pp. 317-19).
He enjoys wide popularity and has the status of a classic Georgian poet. Even more
puzzling is the absence of another name, that of Otar Chkheidze (b. 1920), probably the
most brilliant as well as prolific contemporary writer. The narrative power and style of
his works bring to mind the novels of William Faulkner and James Joyce. By the
beginning of the 1960s he had published several short stories and three novels, all three
condemned by critics as anti-Soviet and unintelligible for the Soviet reader. Apart from
official ostracism he has suffered the almost total indifference of the reader, probably on
account of his exceptionally and often intentionally difficult style. In most of his novels
and stories he utilizes first person narrative that unfolds like a stream of consciousness,
an inner monologue half beaming, half recollecting the events and experiences of the
narrator's past. His complex sentences often stretch to an entire page and more.
Chkheidze's best novel, Hot Wind (Boriaqi), is about the social turmoil in the early
1920s that leads to the abortive rebellion against Bolshevik power in 1924 and the
consequent bloodbath conducted by Sergo Ordjonikidze, then the head of the Georgian
government. The author used almost every available means to render the topic of his
narrative as vague and evasive as possible. Subordinate clauses relentlessly following
one upon the other turn his syntax into a verbal labyrinth that presents a real challenge
for the reader, but those who persist in untangling its intricate web are rewarded by
magnificent images of apocalyptic magnitude and horror. His latest novel, Artistic Coup
d'État (Artisuli gadatrialeba), published in 1994, is a scathing satire of the recent
political turmoil in Georgia.
Rayfield chooses to conclude his survey with two controversial figures, the late
President Zviad Gamsakhurdia and Jaba Ioseliani. The former is the author of some
interesting critical works and translations, but his poems are quite forgettable. The long
criminal record of the latter is gleefully reported by the author who, surprisingly, finds it
appropriate to discredit the subject of his exhaustive survey with such a finale. At
present, Ioseliani is the number two man in the government of Eduard Shevardnadze as
well as a reputed mafia kingpin. According to Rayfieid's account, Ioseliani "became a
professor of oriental languages and then a competent drama-producer and critic"
(p. 333). The only "oriental" language that Jaba Ioseliani speaks besides Georgian is
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Russian. His plays and only novel are barely passable as works of literature, and he has
never written a single critical piece, competent or otherwise. Rayfield's attention to his
mediocre writings closes the book on an unexpected letdown. The Georgian literary
genius is far from a spent force and deserves a better verdict. The author's love for lurid
and titillating details, traceable throughout the book, especially in the chapter on Beria,
has won out over the scholarly concerns so expertly demonstrated in the earlier parts of
his survey.
Dodona Kiziria
AION-SLAVISTIC A. Annali dell'Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli,
Dipartimento di studi dell'Europa orientale, Sezione Slavistica. Firenze:
Edizioni Cadmo, 1994. Volume 2. 542 pp. Paper.
This thick volume is the second in a series of collected contributions to Slavic studies
by Italian scholars (mostly staff members of the Department of East European Studies
at the Istituto Orientale di Napoli, and its Director and this volume's editor-in-chief,
Riccardo Picchio). It is impossible here to do justice to the variety, scope and depth of
the stimulating ideas advanced in the articles, review articles and discussions, reviews,
and chronicles of events. Many of the texts, which total forty-five, arouse interest, and
some perhaps are controversial. There is something here for everyone interested in
Slavic languages, literature and culture. So, a brief summary will have to suffice.
The collection of articles begins with Aleksander Wilkoń' s wide-ranging study on the
"law of open syllables" in Proto-Slavic. The author claims to offer a "new approach" to
what is generally conceived as a process of phonetic or phonetic-phonological type; he
states that such phenomena as the metathesis (and pleophony) of the CärC, CälC, CerC,
CelC groups, the formation of nasal vowels, the monophthongization of diphthongs (e.g.
ai > ë), the simplifications of internal consonantal clusters, and the palatalization of
consonants before,/ (e.g., dusa < dux + ja) as well, are the consequences of a change in
the morphological structure of expressions (pp. 22-28). Wilkoń reasons that the linguistic
"tendency" (and not a "law") CV + CV +..., as reconstructed for Proto-Slavic, was
conditioned by the passage of the old three-part structure of Indo-European (i.e., stem +
thematic suffix + inflectional desinence) to a two-part system (i.e., inflectional stem +
desinence) (p. 14). All this is convincingly argued, but it may not be as innovative as the
author seems to imagine. First, Wilkoń makes little reference to the extensive literature
on the problem, although some points at issue were broadly discussed by George Y.
Shevelov elsewhere; meanwhile, André Martinet appears to be the first to have regarded
the "law of open syllables" as a linguistic tendency. Second, had Wilkoń taken full
account of the relevant achievments in this domain, he would have felt compelled to
assume the prioity of Jan Baudouin de Courtenay, who long ago foregrounded a similar
change in the morphological structure of Indo-European expressions, while propounding
its direct impact on the phonetic articulation (cf. "la deuxième articulation," according to
André Martinet) in the limits of the language-system.
Two more articles examine linguistic problems as such. Angelo Bongo incisively
analyzes how the Italian constructions fare + infinitive can be translated into Russian;
proceeding from an examination of the formal features of this construction, the author
tries to define a correlation between them and the semantic content of the construction,
thereby establishing their frequency of usage and discussing them in terms of adequacy
and equivalence. Monica Ferrante seeks to outline the synthetic distribution of participial
256
construction in its attribute function within a nominal syntagm in Modern Russian. While
the article may look comprehensive and coherent, the author fails to provide a new
understanding of the problem. What cannot be justified in Ferrante's study is the author's
predominant orientation to the Russian-language literature, which is not at all a drawback
per se. But this may lead, in the long ran, to a far more serious fault in a scholarly work.
In fact, the author relies now and then upon contemporary Russian reinterpretations
(thus, provincial at best in outlook) of some Western linguistic ideas (cf. footnote 43,
pp. 69-70, which contains a long passage from Vladimir Gak, whose debt on occasion to
Bernard Pottier, Eugenio Coseriu and Algirdas Greimas is much more than transparent),
while failing to refer, for example, to the original conception advanced by Jurij Stepanov
in his book Indoevropejskoe predloienie (Moscow, 1989).
As far as this reviewer can assess, the volume at hand contains more enlightening and
useful studies on non-linguistic themes. Much more convincing and instructive is Anna
Marija Totomanova's analysis of the expression vëïtiju juze iz'obrëtoxom' which is
found in the introduction to Constantine Kostenecki's orthographic treatise. The author
asserts that the term vest' is used in this treatise not as a "regulative principle," or "cause"
according to Harvey Goldblatt, but as the "ladder of the letters"—the image proposed,
incidentally, by Kostenećki himself—in which v"sa s"dr"zetse "everything is held in
order" (pp. 89-91; cf. in this context John Climacus's Ladder of Divine Ascent which
leads primarily to monastic perfection). The text of the late Georgi Dimov offers a cogent
outline of the Bulgarian literary historiography devoted to inter-Slavic relations from the
period of the National Revival to the mid-twentieth century. What raises doubts in this
article—which is otherwise well-balanced and concise—is the passage in which the
author traces Marin Drimov's academic activities at Kharkiv University in the context of
Russian-Bulgarian relations (p. 102). Yet the context which emerges is much more
complex and, to say the least, ambiguous, if taken separately from the Ukrainian background so clearly perceptable at Kharkiv University of that time. Here it is sufficient to
mention Dmytro Bahalij, professor at Kharkiv University at that time, who distinguished
himself in the field of Ukrainian historiography, and Oleksander Potebnja, an outstanding Ukrainian scholar, who along with Marin Drimov was one of the founding members
of the Kharkiv Historical-Philological Society. This said, would it not have been appropriate here to speak about Ukrainian-Bulgarian relations or even collaboration?
It is a great pity that this was not done, and one wonders why the contributors of the
volume remain consistently oblivious to Ukrainian questions. There is here but one
article, "Religious drama in Ruthenian churches (seventeenth century)" by Sophia
Senyk, that focuses the reader's attention on the Ukrainian theme as such. Adhering
mostly to Nikolaj Petrov, who admitted the possibility of perfomances in an Orthodox
milieu, the author is inclined to assume that the "predominantly religious culture, the
baroque penchant for theatricality, the openness of the Ruthenian Church to western
cultural currents, together with a reminiscence of its Byzantine heritage, all combined to
make dramatizations in church acceptable" (p. 174).
Yet this article gets lost in the shade of the contributions dealing with various Polish
themes. Most certainly, the Polish reader will savor the texts on the anti-Turkish pamphlet Otucha na Pogany that was compiled in 1594 in Cracow by (as credited by Marina
Ciccarini) Jan Smolik, on the Polish fable in the period of the High Baroque, as it was
cultivated by Krzysztof Niemirycz and Stanisław Jabłonowski (Jolanta Żurawska), and
the intriguing interpretation of a citation from Mark 10:17, 18, 22 employed by Adam
Mickiewicz as a motto at the beginning of his Dziady III (Riccardo Picchio).
The articles on Russian problems are much more voluminous and broad in their scope
than those on Polish, not to mention Ukrainian, themes. Deserving attention is the textual
analysis, carried out with the aid of a computer, of Fedor Karpov's epistle (1536) to the
REVIEWS
257
Muscovite metropolitan Daniil (Giovanni Maniscalco Basile), which, in fact, brings little
that is new to the subject, since the knowledgable Russian readership or even nonRussian graduate students can easily get to the "semantic shades" of such words as nrav,
obraz (p. 210), san (p. 212), sil'nyj, sud (p. 213), ustav, tsar' (p. 216), etc. This study may,
however, appeal to the reader for the computer method applied by the author.
On the other hand, of particular interest are the texts on Simeon Polockij's ManyFlowered Garden by Marina di Filippo (we shall not, however, dwell here on the
"Ruthenian" origins of this pivotal figure in Russian culture, nor on the mediating role of
the Ukrainian literature of the age of the Baroque in the process of the "First Westernization" of Russian literature [p. 219], a phenomenon which the author regrettably does not
even allude to), on the poetics of Boris Pasternak (Simonetta Salvestroni), although this
article has an overwhelming number of liberal and, to be sure, superfluous citations of
Pasternak's poems from Doktor Zivago, both in original and in the Italian translation.
Finally, Cinzia De Lotto provides an exellent analysis of the image of Akakij Akakievic
in Gogol's The Overcoat, offered from a religious-philosophical point of view and the
influence of John Climacus' s Ladder of Divine Ascent and Nil Sorskij's Monastic Rule;
like the other contributors to the volume the author here overlooks likewise the Ukrainian
provenance of many themes in the works of this "Little Russian" émigré in the Russian
literary milieu, which might have deepened our understanding of the image of Akakij
AkakieviC.
In general, the volume offers many interesting and useful materials, written in six
languages and distinguished by careful language editing. We note in passing, however,
that it has misspellings, missing commas (in Russian texts, in particular), and typographical errors of the type of "Indoeuropean" (p. 34), "proto-slavic" (p. 33), or "prozyvaet"
(p. 89) for prizyvaet (and many more could be cited). Finally, not all of the texts are
followed by bibliographies, and the volume does not have any index or list of authors.
But this, in fact, does not detract from the overall value of the collection.
These minor quibbles aside, this book, to be sure, adds further to our understanding of
many Slavic questions and testifies to a maturing of Italian Slavic studies that has transpired during the career of, and not without the influence of, Riccardo Picchio, who may
be proud of this new periodical of the Naples Oriental Institute. Thus, precisely because
the second issue encompasses as many insights into different problems as it does, it is
bound to be of great value to students who are au fait with a wide range of scholarly
achievements and those engaged in academic activities in the region.
Andrii Danylenko
Kharkiv Pedagogical University
ISTORIIAFILOSOFIÏUKRAÏNY:KHRESTOMATnA.EditedbyMyitoto
Fedosiiovych Tarasenko, Myroslav Iuriiovych Rusyn, Ada Korniïvna
Bychko, et al. Kyiv. Lybid', 1993. 559 pp. + index. ISBN (paper) 5-32500254-6.
The first requirement for a study of the development of philosophical thought is the
availability of primary sources. Unfortunately, in the case of Ukraine such a study was
not possible for one simple and banal reason: virtually none were published. The work
under review represents one of the first steps to remedy this situation, as it offers a
collection of Ukrainian philosophical and social-political texts from the beginnings of
philosophical thought in Kyivan Rus' to the philosophy of twentieth-century Ukraine.
258
In the course of Ulis long and rich history, philosophy in Ukraine developed in
connection with other forms of social consciousness and therefore the illumination of
the history of philosophical thought in Ukraine in this work is tied with recreating the
entire spectrum of the development of Ukrainian scholarship, literature, political journalism, formation of moral imagination of the people, etc. The history of philosophy in
Ukraine cannot be separated from that of the liberation movement, and it reflects the
dedicated search of the best representatives of the Ukrainian people, their leading
thinkers, for paths of realization of their ideals.
From our vantage point, we can observe that on the basis of the development of
philosophical thought in Ukraine, the authors have established the existence of a certain
type of culture in which the philosophical system is born and developed. This work
begins with the philosophical thought of Kyivan Rus'. Interest in philosophical thought
was revealed only after the acceptance of Christianity. The first works to which philosophical meaning can be attributed were translations of the Church Fathers in Old
Church Slavonic (Ilarion of Kyiv's "Slovo pro zakon i blagodaf," the Izbornik of 1073).
In the original sermons and literary texts of the time, theoretical thought attempted to
create an awareness of the moral outlook of Christians (Daniil Zatochnik, Melissa).
Important religious influences affected the development of philosophical thought in
the first third of the sixteenth century. First of all, this was connected with the intensification of the Protestant movement, increase of Catholic activity, the activity of brotherhoods in L'viv and Kyiv, and the broadening of the ideas of the Ostrih educational
center. A new pleiad of cultural figures, connected with the philosophical ideas of the
brotherhood schools, are presented by the works of Kasian Sakovych and KyryloTrankvilion Stavrovetsisyi. Philosophy is understood here as wisdom by which one
attains the truth through mystical union with God. In this connection, attention is given
to the problem of the inner man and the connected problem of self-knowledge. The
situation changes with the founding in 1615 of the Kyiv Brotherhood. This leads to the
development of humanist ideas, to the awakening of interest in the philosophy of nature
in logic.
The next section of the book, "The Development of Political-Legal Thought in
Ukraine of the Sixteenth to the First Half of the Eighteenth Century," is presented by the
works of Orzechowski (Roksolanki), Ivan Vysensicyi, and Pylyp Orlyk. It clarifies
questions important for Ukraine today: the meaning of democracy, state organization,
and how they are connected with the idea of individual development.
The epoch of the baroque had great importance for Ukraine, and not only historically. In a certain manner it reflected on the entire future history of the people and the
formation of the national type. The development of the style of the baroque coincides
with the flowering of philosophical thought in Ukraine. In this anthology, this age is
represented by the philosophy of the Kyiv Mohyla Academy (Innokentii Gizel', Feofan
Prokopovych, Hryhorii Skovoroda, etc.).
The philosophy of national culture of the beginning of the twentieth century is
connected with the development of romanticism. A prominent representative of this
tendency in literature is Gogol. In this book, Ukrainian romanticism is represented by
fragments of the works of Mykola Kostomarov, and of Dmytro Chyzhevsityi's work on
Kulish and Shevchenko.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, Ukraine was penetrated by the ideas of
West European philosophy, principally German philosophy, which at that time dominated Europe. Therefore all academic philosophy was under its influence. In this book,
academic philosophy is represented by the works of Iurkevych, Lisevych, Chelpaniv,
and Drahomanov.
REVIEWS
259
Ukrainian thought of the twentieth century is completed with the deaths of Ivan
Franko and Lesia Ukramka. The works of these authors are in the part entitled "Ukrainian Philosophical and Social-Political Thought of the Twentieth Century." From another side, a new period of Ukrainian thought of the twentieth century was represented
by the works of Lypynsicyi, Dontsov, and others. An important contribution to the
development of philosophical and social political thought of the twentieth century is
provided by works of Ukrainians in emigration (Chyzhevsicyi, Vynnychenko).
The part entitled "The Development of Philosophy in Ukraine in the '20s-'80s of the
Twentieth Century" is a brief survey of the development of philosophical thought in
Ukraine in this period.
The authors of this book remark that it is one of the first attempts to create a really new
idea of the development of social-political thought in Ukraine from Kyivan Rus' to the
1980s. They introduce the readers to the most significant texts, which present typical and
characteristic features of Ukrainian philosophical thought and culture. One of the major
lackings, however, is the absence of well-known texts of the twentieth century such as
those of Oleksander Potebnia and Bohdan Kistiakivsicyi. Despite this shortcoming, the
work under review deserves praise and is recommended for a broad range of readers,
scholars, and students interested in the development of philosophical and social thought
in Ukraine.
Natalia Kovalchuk
Kharkiv Industrial Arts Institute
BOOKS RECEIVED
Aleksandrovych, Volodymyr. Ukraïns'ke maliarstvo XUI-XVst. L'viv: Studiï ζ istoriï
ukraïnslcoho mystetstva, 1995. 196 pp. No ISBN.
Baran, V. et al. Istoriia Ukrainy. L'viv: vydavnytstvo "Svit," 1996. 488 pp. ISBN 57773-0263-7.
Barner-Barry, Carol and Cynthia A. Hody. The Politics of Change: The
Transformation of the Former Soviet Union. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1995.
371 pp. ISBN 0-312-09079-X.
Bartumiński, Jerzy and Maria Jasińska-Wojkowska, eds. Folklor—Sacrum—Religia.
Tom 2. Lublin: Instytut Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 1995. 294 pp. ISBN 8385854-12-6.
Belaruski histarychny ahliad. Navukovy chasopis. Tom 4. Sshytki 1-2 (6-7). Henadz'
Sahanovich, ed. Minsk: Snezhan', 1997. 312 pp. No ISSN.
Braham, Randolph L., ed. The Destruction of Romanian and Ukrainian Jews During
the Antonescu Era. New York: The Rosenthal Institute for Holocaust Studies,
Graduate Center/City University of New York, 1997.413 pp. ISBN 0-88033-3804.
Brovkin, Vladimir N., ed. The Bolsheviks in Russian Society: The Revolution and the
Civil Wars. New Haven-London: Yale University Press, 1997. 333 pp. ISBN 0300-06706-2.
Bykovsicyi, Lev. U sluzhbakh ukraïns'kii knyzhtsi. L'viv-New York: Ukraïns'ke
Istorychne Tovarystvo, 1997. 328 pp. ISBN 966-02-0097-8.
Chojnowski, Andrzej. Ukraina. Warszawa: Wydawnictvo TRIO, 1997. 234 pp. ISBN
83-85660-51-8.
Crowe, David M. A History of the Gypsies of Eastern Europe and Russia. New York:
St. Martin's Griffin, 1996. 317 pp. ISBN 0-312-12946-7.
Davis, Nathaniel. A Long Walk to Church: A Contemporary History of Russian
Orthodoxy. Boulder-San Francisco-Oxford: Westview Press, 1995. 381 pp.
ISBN 0-8133-2277-4.
DeBardeleben, Joan and John Hannigan, eds. Environmental Security and Quality after
Communism. Boulder-San Francisco-Oxford: Westview Press, 1995. 188 pp.
ISBN 0-8133-2183-2.
Dialogue of East European Partners (DEEP), 6-8 November, 1995. Budapest:
National Széchényi Library and Sabre Foundation, Inc., 1996. 55 pp. No ISBN.
Epp, Ingrid I. and Harvey L. Dyck. The Peter J. Braun Russian Mennonite Archive,
1803-1920: a research guide. Toronto-Buffalo-London: University of Toronto
Press, 1996. 215 pp. ISBN 0-8020-0431-8.
Ethnic Forum. Journal of Ethnic Studies and Ethnic Bibliograhy. Volume 15, numbers
1-2. Lubomyr R. Wynar, ed. Kent: Kent State University, Center for the Study of
of Ethnic Publications and Cultural Institutions, 1995. 258 pp. ISSN 0278-9078.
Gitelman, Zvi, ed. Bitter Lagacy: Confronting the Holocaust in the USSR.
Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1997. 332 pp. ISBN 0253-3359-8.
Gudziak, Borys and Oleh Turii, eds. Beresteis'ka uniia і ukrains'ka kul'tura XVII
stolittia. L'viv: Instytut Istoriï Tserkvy L'vivsicoï Bohoslovslcoï Akademii, 1996.
185 pp. ISBN 5-7707-9328-7.
Gudziak, Borys and Oleh Turii, eds. Derzhava, suspil'stvo і Tserkva ν Ukraïni и XVII
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stolitti. L'viv: Instytut Istoriï Tserkvy L'vivsiioi BohoslovsTcoï Akademii, 1996.
196 pp. ISBN 5-7707-9327-9.
Gudziak, Borys and Oleh Turii, eds. Istorychnyi kontekst ukladennia Beresteisekoï unii
і pershe pouniine pokolonnia. L'viv: Instytut Istoriï Tserkvy L'vivs'koï
BohoslovsTKÜ Akademii, 1995. 187 pp. ISBN 5-7707-8216-1.
Halaichak, Tamara et al, eds. KuVturne zhyttia ν Ukraïni. Zakhidni zemli. Dokumenty i
materiały. Тот 1.1939-1953. Kyiv: Naukova Dumka, 1995. 747 pp. ISBN 5-12004019-5.
Haran, Olexiy. Disintegration of the Soviet Union and the US Position on the
Independence of Ukraine. Cambridge: John F. Kennedy School of Government,
Center for Science and International Affairs, 1995. 44 pp. No ISBN.
The Harriman Review. Peoples. Nations, Identities: The Russian-Ukrainian
Encounter. Volume 9, Number 1-2, Spring 1996. New York: Harriman Institute,
Columbia University, 1996.159 pp. No ISBN.
Horbal, Bogdan. Działalność Polityczna Łemków na Łemkowszczyźnie. Wrocław:
wydawnictwo Arboretum, 1997. 187 pp. ISBN 83-86308-22-2.
Hundorova, Tamara. Franko-ne Kameniar. Melbourne: Monash University, Slavic
section, 1996.151 pp. ISBN 0-7326-0989-5.
IelensTcyi, Victor, and Victor Perebenesiuk. Relihiia. Tserkva. Molod'. Kyiv:
vydavnytstvo ALD, 1996. 160 pp. ISBN 5-7707-9790-8.
Isaievych, Iaroslav et al, eds. Shashkevychiana. Vypusk 1-2. L'viv-Brody-Vinnipeg:
Instytut Ukrainoznavstva im. I. Kryp'iakevycha, vydavnytstvo "Prosvita," 1996.
465 pp. ISBN 5-77021026-5.
Isaievych, Iaroslav, ed. Ukraina: kul'turna spadshchyna, natsional'na svidomist',
derzhavnist'. Vypusk 2. L'viv: Instytut Ukrainoznavstva im. I. Kryp'iakevycha,
1995. 227 pp. ISBN 5-7702-0612-8.
Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs. Volume 17, number 1, April 1997. Saleha S.
Mahmood. ed. London: Institute of Muslim Minority Affairs, 1997.213 pp. ISSN
1360-2004.
Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs. Volume 17, number 2, October 1997. Saleha S.
Mahmood. ed. London: Institute of Muslim Minority Affairs, 1997. 371 pp. ISSN
1360-2004.
Journal of Ukrainian Studies. Volume 20, numbers 1-2. Roman Senkus, ed. Toronto:
Canadian Institute for Ukrainian Studies, 1995. 225 pp. ISSN 0228-1635.
Journal of Ukrainian Studies. Volume 22, numbers 1-2. Roman Senkus, ed. Toronto:
Canadian Institute for Ukrainian Studies, 1997. 228 pp. ISSN 0228-1635.
Kalinichenko, V. V. Selians'ke hospodarstvo Ukrainy ν period NEPu: istorykoekonomichne doslidzhennia. Kharkiv: "Osnova," 1997. 399 pp. ISBN 5-77680277-6.
Kara-Vasyl'ieva, Tetiana. Liturhiine shytvo Ukrainy XVII-XVIII St. L'viv: Monastyr
Monakhiv Studiisicoho Ustavu, vydavnychyi viddil "Svichado," 1996. 231 pp.
ISBN 5-7707-6687-5.
Khlevniuk, O. V. et al, eds. Stalinskoe Politbiuro ν 30-e gody. Sbornik dokumentov.
Moscow: "AIRO-XX," 1995. 340 pp. ISBN 5-88735-009-1.
Kononenko, Natalie O., ed. The Magic Egg and Other Tales from Ukraine.
Englewood: Libraries Unlimited, Inc., 1997. 222 pp. ISBN 1-56308-425-2.
Konoval, Oleksii, ed. Ukra'ins'ka revoliutsiino-demokratychna partiia (URDPUDRP). Zbirnyk materialiv і dokumentiv. Chicago-Kyiv: Fundatsiia im. Ivana
Bahrianoho, 1997. 850 pp. ISBN 0-914834-04-5.
Kvashonkin, A. V. et al, eds. Bol'shevistskoe rukovodstvo. Perepiska 1912-1927.
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Moscow: Rossiiskaia Politicheskaia Entsiklopediia, 1996.423 pp. ISBN 5-86004083-0.
Laba, Vasyl', ed. Dokumenty do istoriï Ukraïns'koï Hreko-Katolyts'koï Tserkvy и
Pol'shchi и 1947-1960-kh rokakh (Z arkhivu o. mytrata Myroslava Ripets'koho).
L'viv: "Kameniar," 1996. 312 pp. ISBN 5-7745-0691-6.
LeDonne, John P. The Russian Empire and the World, 1700-1917: The Geopolitics of
Expansion and Containment. New York-Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997.
394 pp. ISBN 0-19-510926-0.
Liebich, André. From the Other Shore: Russian Social Democracy after 1921.
Cambridge, MA-London: Harvard University Press, 1997. 476 pp. ISBN 0-67432517-6.
Lindheim, Ralph and George S. N. Luckyj, eds. Towards an Intellectual History of
Ukraine: An Anthology of Ukrainian Thought from 1710 to 1995. TorontoBuffalo-New York: University of Toronto Press and Shevchenko Scientific
Society, Inc., 1996. 420 pp. ISBN 0-8020-7855-9.
Luckyj, George S. N., ed. Modern Ukrainian Short Stories. Revised first edition.
Englewood: Ukrainian Akademie Press, 1995. 230 pp. ISBN 1-56308-391-4.
Luckyj, George. Shevchenko's Unforgotten Journey. Toronto: Canadian Scholars'
Press, 1996. 119 pp. ISBN 1-55130-102-4.
Magosci, Paul Robert, ed. A New Slavic Language Is Born. New York: East European
Monographs, 1996. 68 pp. ISBN 0-88033-331-6.
Mizhnarodna Naukova Konferentsiia: L'viv, 3-5 travnia 1995 r. Dopovidi і
povidomlennia. Knyha ν sotsiokul'turnomu prostori. L'viv: vydavnychyi tsentr
"Feniks," 1995. 144 pp. ISBN 5-87332-040-3.
Moklak, Jarosław. Łemkowszczyzna w Drugiej Rzeczypospolitej.
Zagadnienia
polityczne i wyznaniowe. Kraków: Uniwersytet Jagielloński, 1997. 223 pp. ISBN
83-906446-5-7.
Ohloblyn, Oleksander. Studiïz istoriï Ukrainy: stattı i dzherel'ni materiialy. Lubomyr
R. Wynar, ed. New York-Kyiv-Toronto: UkrainsTce Istorychne Tovarystvo,
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1-879070-07-3.
Onyshkevych, Larysa, ed. Blyzniata shche zustrinut'sia. Antolohiia dramaturhii
ukraïns'koï diiaspory. Kyiv-L'viv: vydavnytstvo "Chas," 1997. 627 pp. ISBN
966-7007-04-9.
Oxford Slavonic Papers. New Series. Volume XXX. 1997. G. S. Smith and G. С Stone,
eds. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997. 120 pp. ISBN 0-19-815954-4.
Palij, Michael. The Ukrainian-Polish Defensive Alliance 1919-1921: An Aspect of the
Ukrainian Revolution. Edmonton-Toronto: Canadian Institute of Ukrainian
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Pankin, Boris. The Last Hundred Days of the Soviet Union. London-New York: I. B.
Tauris Publishers, 1996. 282 pp. ISBN 1-85043-878-1.
Pohl, Otto J. The Stalinist Penal System. Jefferson, NC-London: McFarland and
Company, Inc., Publishers, 1997. 165 pp. ISBN 0-7864-0336-5.
Procyk, Anna. Russian Nationalism and Ukraine: The Nationality Policy of the
Volunteer Army During the Civil War. Edmonton-Toronto: Canadian Institute of
Ukrainian Studies Press, 1995. 202 pp. ISBN 1-895571-04-9.
Smoke, Richard, ed. Perceptions of Security: Public Opinion and Expert Assesments in
Europe's New Democracies. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1996. 332
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Śtec, MikuláS. Ukraïns 'ka mova ν Slovachchyni. Preääov: Filozovická Fakulta ν PreSove
Univerzity Pavía Józefa Śafarika ν KoSiciach, 1996. 252 pp. ISBN 80-8872218-7.
Stępień, Stanisław, ed. Biuletyn Informacyjny, nr 1. Przemyśl: Południowo-Wschodni
Instytut Naukowy w Przemyślu, 1995. 79 pp. No ISBN.
Thomas, Paul F. Can the Great Game Really Be Deconstructed? A Geopolitical
Challenge for Philosopher-Warriors. Kingston: The Kashtan Press, 1996. 29 pp.
No ISBN.
Treadgold, Warren. A History of the Byzantine State and Society. Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 1997. 1019 pp. ISBN 0-8047-2421-0.
Turkewicz-Sanko, Hélène, ed. Treasury of Ukrainian Love: Poems, Quotations and
Proverbs. New York: Hippocrene Books, 1997. 128 pp. ISBN 0-7818-0517-1.
Ukrains'kyi istoryk. Mykhailo Hrushevs'kyi. Studiï i materiały z nahody 130-richchia
narodzhennia. Iuvileine vydannia. Tom XXXIII. Lubomyr Wynar, ed. New YorkToronto-Kyiv-L'viv-Munich: Ukrainsice Istorychne Tovarystvo, 1996. 472 pp.
ISSN 0041-6061.
Ukrains'kyi istoryk. Na poshanu Lubomyra Wynaria, osnovnyka "UkraXns'koho
istoryka" i Ukraïns'koho Istorychnoho Tovarystva. Tom XXXIV. Lubomyr Wynar,
ed. New York-Toronto-Kyiv-L'viv-Munich: UkrainsTce Istorychne Tovarystvo,
1997. 382 pp. ISSN 0041-6061.
The Ukrainian Challenge: reforming labour market and social policy. International
Labour Office, Central and Eastern European Team. Budapest: Central European
University Press, 1995. 318 pp. ISBN 1-85866-045-9.
Ukrainian Economic Review. Volume I (1-2). I. S. Koropeckyj, ed. Kyiv-Philadelphia:
International Ukrainian Economic Association, 1995. 155 pp. ISSN 1080-725X.
Ukrainian Economic Review. Volume II (3). I. S. Koropeckyj, ed. Kyiv-Philadelphia:
International Ukrainian Economic Association, 1996. 160 pp. ISSN 1080-725X.
Vins, Georgi. The Gospel in Bonds. Elkhart, IN: Russian Gospel Ministries, 1995.155
pp. ISBN 0-9648588-0-0.
Wasylyk, Miguel. Economía Postsoviética. Buenos Aires: Universidad Católica
Argentina, Facultad de Ciencias Sociales y Económicas, 1997.117 pp. ISBN 950523-085-0.
Williams, Kieran. The Prague Spring and its Aftermath: Czechoslovak politics, 19681970. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. 270 pp. ISBN 0-52158226-1.
Wilson, Andrew. Ukrainian Nationalism in the 1990s: A Minority Faith. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997. 300 pp. ISBN 0-521-48285-2.
Wynar, Lubomyr, ed. Lystuvannia Mykhaila Hrushevs'koho. Kyiv-New York-ParisL'viv-Toronto: Ukrainslce Instorychne Tovarystvo, 1997. 398 pp. ISBN 1879070-09-X.
Z istoriïfilosofs'koïdumky Ukrainy. Kataloh vystavky. Kharkiv: Ministerstvo kul'tury
Ukrainy, Kharkivslca derzhavna naukova biblioteka im. V. H. Korolenka, 1995.
73 pp. No ISBN.
From HURİ Publications:
Crisis and Reform: The Kyivan Metropolitanate, The Patriarchate of
Constantinople, and The Genesis of The Union of Brest. Borys A. Gudziak
Crisis and Reform explains and réévaluâtes one of the most controversial
events in Slavic church history, the Union of Brest (1596), through which the
majority of the Ruthenian hiearchy recognized the supremacy of the pope in
Rome while retaining its Slavonic-Byzantine liturgical tradition and ethos. The
book provides an excellent overview of ecclesiastical structures in Eastern
Slavic lands from their Christianization to
the late sixteenth century and surveys
interconfessional relations in Poland and
Lithuania before and during the age of
Reforms. It also presents an original and
nuanced analysis of the relationship of the
Slavic East with the Greek Orthodox world
after the fall of Byzantium to the Ottomans
(1453). Crisis and Reform will be of interest
to specialists in East European cultural and
religious history and to all interested in
understanding the religious landscape of
Eastern Europe today.
512 pp., 21 b&w and color illus.,
4 maps; ISBN 0-916458-74-1
(hardcover) $34.95.
For a free catalog of all of the publications of the Harvard Ukrainian
Research Institute, contact—
HURI Publications,
1583 Massachusetts Ave., Cambridge, MA 02138
tel. 617.495.4053 /fax. 617.495.8097
[email protected] / http://www.sabre.org/huri/
Website Publications and Resources of the
Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute:
• On-line publications catalog
• Working papers series
• Bibliographies and directories keyed to Institute holdings
• Scholars' and researchers' handbook on resources on the field
• Information aboxut current and future Institute events, press
releases, related course information
J

harvard ukrainian studies - Projects at Harvard

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